


Into Oblivion

by cherie_morte



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Amnesiac Dean, Angst, Flashbacks, M/M, Permanent Injury, Recreational Drug Use, Temporary Amnesia, Temporary Character Death - Winchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 04:33:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9219182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherie_morte/pseuds/cherie_morte
Summary: AU after 8x23:Sam dies before completing the last trial, leaving Dean alone and desperate. After a month of trying to bring Sam back, Dean gets a tip from the most unlikely of places: Metatron. Now reigning in Heaven, the angel is still looking for stories—one in particular. Sam and Dean broke destiny when they derailed the apocalypse, rewrote the book Metatron had penned himself thousands of years ago, and now theirs is the only history the Scribe of God can't access. Although he has Sam's soul captive in Heaven, no amount of torture has convinced Sam to give up his and Dean's life story.Metatron gives Dean a scroll and makes a bet: if Dean can follow the instructions and return Sam's soul to his body within three days, Heaven will relinquish its claim on Sam. If he can't, Dean will forget he ever had a brother and all of his memories of Sam will belong to Metatron. It sounds like a fair enough deal, but of course there's a catch. From the moment Dean reads the instructions, he begins to forget Sam and his quest, each memory disappearing faster the more clues he leaves himself. It's a race against the clock to decide Sam's life, and it's all or nothing. Dean will get his brother back—or lose him completely.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Into Oblivion](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/253319) by Petite Madame. 



> This is an old fic I wrote for the [spn_reversebang](http://spn-reversebang.livejournal.com/) in 2014. It was originally posted on LiveJournal [here](http://infatuated-ink.livejournal.com/89345.html).
> 
> This was inspired entirely by art by **Petite Madame** , whose post can be found [here](http://smallworld-inc.livejournal.com/26264.html) (GO LOOK AT IT, SERIOUSLY). I am reposting it on AO3 due to some renewed interest folks on Twitter have been showing for my amnesiac!Dean fics ever since [SPOILER] came out. I will be reposting one amnesia!Dean fic every Thursday until the hiatus ends. :)

**NOW**

It's biblical, the rain outside. Dean steps through puddles, only dimly aware of the gross, soggy slosh of his soaked socks and shoes. It isn't even three in the afternoon, but you could never tell from the sky. It looks like night with this many clouds.

He's drunk. There's one step down into the Men of Letters' bunker that's twice as long as the others, and if he wasn't so used to entering by now, he'd probably slip and break his neck.

Not that lucky. He makes it to the bottom with only a slight stumble, and it sends him into the concrete wall by the door, laughing as the rain beats down on him. Drunk doesn't even begin to cover it.

There's no telling how long Dean stands there just staring at the keyhole before he remembers that he's got the key now, no one else is gonna let him in. Sam used to carry it. Sam and his nerdy enthusiasm for all things Men of Letters-related. Sam wore that key like it was an Olympic gold medal. Like being a legacy was so great, and it isn't, it's worthless. Dean hasn’t found a single book in their entire overgrown collection that tells him how to bring Sam back, so as far as he's concerned, being a legacy holds about as much distinction as passing out in a gutter.

Once he finally gets the door open, he pours in with the rain. The bunker is quiet and still, no one clattering in the kitchen, no flipping of old, musty pages.

"Sam," he calls out anyway. "Sam, I'm home."

Sam doesn't respond, but that's nothing new. He's been awfully quiet for weeks. Finally shut up, like Dean's been telling him to do since he learned to talk.

Of course, he's dead, so there's that, but Dean's not letting himself get hung up on the details.

He doesn't waste time drying off. There's a good chance he'll regret it, considering where he's headed, but Sam's been alone for nearly three days while he was on the job, and Dean doesn't want him to get lonely. Besides, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little excited to see his brother again.

His coat is hung outside the cold chamber, where Dean leaves it for easy access. The blast of air that hits him when he opens the door is worse than usual, chilling the rainwater still dripping from his hair.

"Hey, sleeping beauty," he teases.

Dean walks to the center of the room and pulls the tarp off Sam, smiling down at his brother. Sam looks peaceful, and he'd been so stressed with the trials, tossing and turning all night instead of getting real rest. That's all this is. This is some good, much-needed sleep, and once Dean wakes him up, Sam will be better off for having gotten it.

"The job was a bust," he tells Sam, pulling his chair up and plopping down next to his brother. "That witch doctor in Oregon didn't know shit about resurrection. Great chili, though. You would've liked his chili."

Dean laughs like Sam made a joke. "Kind of glad you weren't there to eat it, though. Last thing I needed was your gassy ass in the car for the drive from there to here."

Sam doesn't reply, but Dean knows what the bitch face would look like, so he smiles and tilts back in his chair.

"How's it been here? Anything interesting happen?"

He listens for a while to the half-imagined answer his brother gives (doesn't give) and wonders when he’ll finally lose those last strands of sanity, the ones that tell him he's making himself hear voices on purpose, the ones that know Sam is—

"Dude, I'm telling you, shit is pretty boring lately. Cas is still missing, Charlie and Kevin are both on research duty." He drums his fingers on the metal table under Sam and tries to look encouraging. "But don't worry. They've found some good stuff. We have really solid leads. Thinking I'll have you up and about in a week or two, easy."

It's a lie, a big one. Every possible solution to their problem that anyone has dug up in the last month has been a bust, sending Dean on a series of wild goose chases with nothing to show for them. But he won't tell Sam that, not just yet. He isn't losing hope, and it's always been his job to put a brave face on things, make them seem better than they are so Sam can relax.

Sam always stresses himself out, and Dean doesn't want to say anything that will wipe that serene smile off his brother's face. There's no point getting worried over a little thing like this. Stints in Hell, even Purgatory, those are things to worry about, causes to give up on. No getting out, no point trying. And still, they've both made it through mostly unscathed. A little thing like death is a joke. They've come back from it so many times. It's not a big deal. His brother isn't gonna be stopped by something as simple as dying.

They talk (Dean talks, Sam listens) for a few more hours before Dean can feel the day wearing down on him: driving, disappointment at the witch doctor being another dead end, and the general strain of living without oxygen chipping away at him. His head is drooping, resting against Sam's chest when he gets too tired to hold it up. Sam is a frozen block under him, and there's no way Dean is falling asleep in here.

"You said you didn't want to let me down. You promised to live, so. You're letting me down," he reminds Sam as he gets up to leave, because Sam internalizes this shit, and Dean isn't above guilting him back into being alive. "I'd like it if you'd get up soon. I'm doing my part, but you gotta help me out, okay Sammy?"

No point waiting for a response. Sam's a stubborn guy, always has been. Either he'll listen or he won't, nothing more Dean can do than ask and hope. He kisses his brother's forehead, tells Sam goodnight, and walks his drunk ass out to Sam's room.

This is where he spends his nights now. Sam didn't use his bed much when he was alive, choosing to sleep in Dean's more often than not. The pillow doesn't smell like Sam did when he was alive and the imprint on the mattress is sculpted to Dean more than Sam.

Sam died right here. The sheets haven't been washed, they're still stale with the sweat that had seeped out of his brother as he'd shaken through his fever. It's maybe not sanitary, but Dean isn't here for sanitary. It doesn't bring him comfort, but he's not looking for that, either.

Dean sleeps here to remember. Not his brother—god knows he won't forget his brother, not even in his ugliest moments, when the whiskey doesn't do enough to numb him and he wishes he could forget he ever had a Sam to lose. He sleeps in Sam's bed, face smashed into the pillow, to remember that he failed. He sleeps here so he doesn't have a chance at a good rest while his brother is still dead.

It's torment, and Dean deserves it. He let Sam _die_. He's let Sam stay that way for weeks now. If this was a just universe, Dean would be dead, too. He should be burning in Hell again, like he knows he will be if he dies before he can save Sam. But he can't make it happen; if Dean is dead, no one will bring Sam back. He already fucked up enough, so he won't let himself have the easy out, a quick bullet in his brain and no more missing his brother. He hasn't earned it.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and waits for the fitful sleep that comes with remembering.

  


**May 30, 2015**  


The worst of it should be over. Sam's skin stopped glowing hours ago, and his fever broke, though he's still sweating buckets. He says the pain isn't as bad as it was at first, and Dean has to believe him, because he's liable to lose his damn mind pretty soon if he doesn't get a little good news.

"Alright," he says, wiping the sweat off Sam's forehead with a cloth that's already pretty much soaked. He's going to need another one soon, but the thought of leaving Sam's side to get it isn't really synching up with his instincts right now. "You're alright, Sammy. Go on, just close your eyes and let it go. You're gonna be fine."

"Yeah," Sam agrees absently, nodding like he has a thousand times today. Dean thinks he doesn't even know what he's going along with, at least until Sam turns his head just enough to catch Dean's eyes. "No, you know what? I'm not."

Dean only misses a beat, pausing for a second before deciding to ignore that and go right on wiping Sam down.

Sam reaches up, wrapping his fingers around Dean's wrist to stop him, and it's embarrassing how weak his grasp is, how easy to slip out it would be. Sam's hands are shaking, even his wrists too thin thanks to these stupid trials.

"Dean, look at me."

"I am looking at—"

"No," Sam says firmly, and his voice comes out so strong that Dean does stop. Sam hasn't put that much force behind his words for months, since right around the time he did the second trial, when he started getting really sick. "I need you to actually _look at me_."

Dean gives him a quick perfunctory glance, shrugs, and tries to get back to his work. Sam shakes his head.

"I'm in tatters, man. I'm going to die. I know it. You know it. That's why you won't let yourself—" He breaks off to cough, and Dean takes advantage of the distraction.

"I'll get some more cough drops if you want. You think that'll help your throat? Or I could warm up some of the soup from—"

"You're making it worse."

Dean actually flinches at that. "I—I'll, I'm sorry. Sammy. Just tell me what you need, I'm trying here. Painkillers maybe? I don't know what to do, there isn't exactly a manual."

"Just stop mother-henning. Stop pretending you don't know what's coming. You're stressing yourself out, and you're stressing me out…" Sam passes his hand over his face. "I want this to be as peaceful as possible. That's all I want. I want you to let me go. Now and when it's over." He takes a deep breath. "Let me go quietly, okay?"

Dean grips the towel in his hand so tight it begins to drip perspiration around his fingers. "Shut up, Sam."

To his surprise, Sam does, but it looks more resigned and miserable than obedient, and Dean can't help thinking of the last time Sam thought he was gonna die, back when Lucifer wasn't letting him sleep, when he was too tired to eat, let alone argue. But he hadn't died then. Cas had saved him. Where the hell was Cas?

"What happened to the light at the end of the tunnel, Sam? Huh? What happened to wanting to live and finish the trials and get old and pruny? What was the point of that spiel if all you really want is to stop kicking?"

"I don't _want_ to die," Sam replies, infuriatingly calm. "I am going to die. And if I am going to die, then I want it to be without driving you into a panic over something neither of us can change. I want it to be as painless as possible, and Dean," he looks up into Dean's eyes, "I want you to burn my bones and let it rest. Go be normal or help Kevin with the tablet, I don't care. Burn me, mourn me, move on."

"Like a regular Joe," Dean says, laughing.

"Yeah," Sam replies, smiling tentatively. "Just like that."

"Normally I'm all about respecting a dying man's wishes," says Dean. "But fuck you for even suggesting it, Sam."

"That's gonna be your attitude?" Sam asks, and Dean wants to say 'yes' and go right on trying to find a way to help him, but Sam suddenly sounds so _sad_. Christ, he sounds like he's about to cry. "Those are gonna be your last words to me? After everything, that's all I get?"

"No last words, nobody's saying—"

"Dean," says Sam, putting a hand over Dean's and squeezing it. "Please."

Dean gives in, really looks at his brother like he's been refusing to do for days now. Sam is emaciated, a shadow of his usual self, and if this was anyone else, Dean would say death was a mercy. But it's Sam. It's _Sam_ , and Sam can't just die.

"C'mere," Sam says, scooting back and patting the mattress next to him. He gives Dean a lopsided attempt at a smile. "I know I'm gross right now, but just—that's all I want. I want you to be here with me when I—" His voice breaks and he swallows hard, the only sign he's more scared than he's letting on. "When it happens."

Here's Dean's weakest moment. He gives in. He knows he should keep fighting, keep trying, not just lie down and let Sam die. But his little brother asked for something, something he really wants, and Dean doesn't know how not to give it to him.

So he climbs into bed and listens to his brother's labored breathing for as long as it goes on. Sam whispers to him once Dean is in his arms: good things mostly, some apologies for bad ones Dean forgave a long time ago. He makes Dean promise to burn his bones the next day, and Dean even means it when he says he will.

Of course, it's different when he wakes up, alone, in bed with a corpse, and he either has to accept that Sam is really gone or start fighting. It's fitting that it's a Monday morning. Time to get to work.

  


**NOW**  


The door slams shut behind him, and Dean hears the whole room, paper-thin motel walls, rattling on its frame. Maybe he'll knock the whole building down, bring the roof and sky falling on him, and finally get a goddamn out.

He hasn't seen Sam in twelve hours, and it'll probably be at least another twelve between sleep and driving before he gets to correct that. Being away from Sam makes his palms itch these days, like if he's gone too long Sam will just vanish and Dean won't even have a body left to cling to.

Another day, another dead end. Dean's not giving up, not about to give up, but losing hope? Definitely. He's starting to think he's the one that died, went to Hell and doesn't even know it this time. He's staring down eternity with every day spent just like this. No Sam. Chasing his tail trying to correct that.

"Someone's in an awfully sour mood," says a voice behind him. It's somewhat familiar, but not enough to take Dean off guard. He stops in the middle of the room, pulls his gun from the back of his jeans, and turns quickly to find out who's talking.

Leaning against the window frame is Metatron, same deceptively goofy vessel as the last time Dean saw him. He's got one of those smug smiles they must teach angels how to do in Heaven, and Dean grips his gun harder, even though he knows it's useless.

"How'd you get in here?" he asks.

Metatron crosses his arms over his chest. "You do know your way around angel warding, I'll grant you that."

"Learned it from you, ironically enough," Dean says, angling his head at the symbol he'd hung on the door, the same one that had been carved into the box with the angel tablet hidden inside all those months ago.

"That's a strong sigil, a good thing for you to have in your repertoire. Very good choice," Metatron nods in approval. "But I do think you should know, its power is heavily concentrated. It covers small things like lockboxes but it's not gonna keep an angel out of your room. All it does is ensure they don't come in through the door."

"I'll keep that in mind for next time," Dean says. "Why are you here?"

"I'm here 'cause you're here," the angel tells him. "Couldn't track you down, so I planted a lead I knew you'd catch wind of."

Dean swallows and looks away. How could he walk into a trap this stupid? "The wish-granting Kapre," he says. "You made it up."

Metatron nods again. "I'm afraid so. I've wanted to speak with you for weeks now."

"You tricked my brother into getting himself killed, misled my friend—I don't even know where Cas is—and now you're toying with me. What the hell makes you think I have anything to say to you?"

Metatron laughs like they're old buddies and Dean is just playing out some old joke. "Oh, come on, Dean. Grudges are for people who can afford to be stubborn. I just want to make a deal."

"I'm not making a deal with you," Dean snaps. "If you came here to kill me, kill me. But if you wanna talk? Find a shrink."

"And I guess you aren't curious where exactly your brother's soul went when he died." Dean feels his expression betray his curiosity, and Metatron snorts. "There's the response I was hoping for."

"I'm listening," says Dean. "I won't be for long."

"Sam is in Heaven now. And guess who has exclusive rights on which souls get in or out of Heaven?"

"Give him back to me," Dean says. "I'll do anything. Whatever the deal is, I'll make it."

"Well, my sources sure were right about you." Metatron snickers. "Most people find out their dead brother's in Heaven, they let it go at that."

"I've been to your shitty excuse for an afterlife. Your party sucks." Dean licks his lips. "Just tell me what you want from me."

"I'm a simple guy. All I want are some good stories." Metatron gives him a friendly smile, and it frankly creeps Dean out. "That's all."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Once upon a time, give me my brother back or I will tear you apart and that's a goddamn promise."

"Don't be cute with me. Or I'll change my mind." Metatron reaches into his coat and pulls out a scroll of parchment that looks about a million years old. "I'm here to offer you a good shot at getting your brother back. Better than anything else you'll find, and I can guarantee that. I supervise your brother's soul myself, so there's no way he's getting out unless I say he's getting out."

Dean reaches for the scroll, but Metatron pulls his arm back. "Not so fast, Dean. I'm not some crossroad demon. I want you to understand what you're signing up for before you read this. Because once you've read it, there's no turning back."

"Turning back from what?" Dean asks.

"You know what the best thing about being God's scribe was?"

"The dental plan?"

Metatron narrows his eyes. "I got to write the stories. The tablets? That was grunt work. That was just to pay the bills. My proudest contributions are written on different pages. I got to learn everything that would happen before anyone else. I was there when God got all his best plot ideas, even helped him brainstorm a few times. Babel? That was all me."

"This is really fascinating stuff," Dean says. "Is there a point coming soon?"

Metatron's face goes cold, and Dean hears a crash of thunder outside. "If saving your brother is boring to you," he says, and Dean sees his wings begin to stretch out, black shadows bigger than the room they're in. "I'll just go."

Dean seizes forward, grabbing Metatron's wrist, then releases him immediately when he realizes what a suicidal move that is. Still, it's enough to calm the angel, and Metatron pulls his wings in, is back to looking like someone's creepy-but-harmless uncle in no time.

"I wrote destiny," he says angrily. "I knew everything that was going to happen. I was proud of that. Do you know what it felt like to finally get back to Heaven only to learn my most precious work has been thrown out because a couple of insignificant humans decided they don't want to play by the rules?"

Dean laughs. "Oh, so that's what this is about. Look, buddy, you're not the first angel to get a stick up their ass about the whole averted Apocalypse thing. Don't know what you want me to do about it now."

"I don't care about the Apocalypse," Metatron says, holding his hands out like he's imploring Dean to understand. "I care about the story. There's a new story now. And that's great. That's fascinating." His face gets dark and greedy. "I want it."

The angel looks down at the scroll in his hand again. "I tried to look it up, like your brother so helpfully suggested, remember that? Problem is, you and your brother, by changing Heaven's histories, have written the only story I can't access. It's not anywhere. I can't find the start, the middle. How am I supposed to enjoy the end without the narrative?"

"Bring Sam back and there won't be an end," Dean suggests.

Metatron shakes his head, holds his arm out, and Dean snatches the scroll from him before he can get a chance to change his mind again.

"Or I go to the source. Now, your brother has been a disappointment. I've tried asking him nicely. I've tried asking him not so nicely." He smiles and Dean nearly shoots him just on principle. "He has one hell of a spine, your brother. Me? I would have cracked under half as much pain. But I guess after Sam's tour in Hell, nothing I can think of is gonna do the job. I'm not all that creative when it comes to torture, you see. Not my kind of story."

Sam being in Heaven alone—that was bad enough. The whole foundation of that place was supposed to be them, Sam and Dean together, and if Sam had to be in Heaven at all, Dean should be with him. But the thought of him up there: passing on, like he was supposed to, doing everything right, only to find more suffering? That's more than Dean can bear.

"Please," Dean says, hating how soft he sounds. "Please, just let him go. He never did anything to you. He's already been through so much. Just let him go."

Metatron points to the scroll in Dean's hand. "That's where you come in. See, I want exclusive rights to your story. Now, I can do a lot. I have done a lot. But I can't take memories from a soul without its consent, and he's clinging to you up there as hard as you're apparently clinging to him down here. I'm not getting anywhere with him, and frankly I'm exhausted from trying. So. I give up on him. Let's see if you're wiser than he is."

"That's the trade, then?" Dean asks, looking down at the scroll. "My memories for Sam?"

"Eh," Metatron says, making a wishy-washy gesture with his hands. "Not quite. That's boring, if you ask me. This way's more fun."

"What way?" Dean sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Just tell me the bottom line already."

"I wanna make a bet. Think Devil Went Down to Georgia meets Memento." Metatron stuffs his hands into his pockets. "You do everything on that scroll within three days: you carry Sam's soul out of Heaven yourself. I won't stop you, and I'll even let you keep your memories. A win is a win."

"If I can't do it?"

Metatron shrugs. "Then you forget Sam, I get to hold onto your memories of him, and I get my story. Maybe Sam'll even be willing to let go of his once he finds out you've cracked. I'd love a matched set of points of view."

Just like that, like everything he and Sam have been through is just a nice piece of china for his collection.

"You must not know my brother very well if you think his stubborn ass is that easy to crack," Dean says. He shakes his head. "If I don't finish it, I lose Sam even more than I already have."

"Yep," Metatron answers cheerfully. "But hey, you won't even miss him!"

Dean wants to laugh at that. He raises the scroll, about to tear the seal, but Metatron stops him again.

"Look, I want to be very fair about this. You be sure you're willing to do this before you open that scroll."

"Why? I’d rather see what the test is before I decide if I wanna risk Sammy on it."

Metatron tsks. "You break that seal, read the words on the page? That's as good as agreeing. You start losing your memories immediately."

"Wait," Dean says. "You never told me I would be losing my memory while I was doing it. You said if I don't finish I lose them."

"Right, well. I'm telling you now."

"How the hell am I supposed to save Sam if I've already forgotten him?"

Metatron grins then. "My favorite thing about gambling, Dean. House always wins."

There's a flap of wings, and before Dean can argue, the angel is gone. Dean laughs at the injustice of it, carries the scroll over to the nearest bed and sets it on the nightstand. He drinks his way through a bottle of whiskey, thinking it over.

There's nothing Dean can imagine worse than failing this. Losing Sam altogether. At least now he knows his brother, remembers that he had something to get him through his sorry life. He could die today, go on to Heaven, maybe they'll be together again. If he fucks this up and forgets…

Dean shivers. He can't even imagine what that life would be like. How much Sam would hate him if at the end of everything Dean gets to Heaven and doesn't even recognize him. Sam would hate him for even taking the chance, and that should settle it.

But then he thinks of his brother, sitting up there with needles in his brain, the kind of torture Castiel went through, or worse. After Hell. After going there to save the world, and Dean most of all. After everything he's struggled through and fought against since then. If there's anyone who deserves a damn break when he dies, it's Sam, and this just isn't fair. And what if Metatron really has him where no one can reach him, if even in their Heaven, Dean never gets to see Sam again.

It's a shit deal, but there's no real question whether he'll do it or not. He sets the scroll aside for tomorrow and lets the whiskey pull him down into a long sleep.

"For a guy who likes stories so much, Metatron sure is a shitty writer." Dean cradles his hangover and reads over the words on the page in front of him for the sixth time.

There's muffled screaming from the rattling trunk Dean has dragged out of storage and into the Men of Letters' study, the one he shoved Crowley's still demonic ass into when Sam couldn't cure him, was suddenly dying, and Dean had more important things to worry about. Dean decides to take the shouting for agreement and turns his attention back to the words in front of him.

Saving Sam is going to be a simple matter of figuring out how to break into Heaven. And then the really fun part starts, the part where Dean has to find Sam's soul, convince it to hitch a ride with him, get it past Metatron and whatever other obstacles there are in place for keeping dead souls in Heaven, and put it back into Sam's body. All in three days. All before he forgets what he's even doing or why he's doing it.

Oh, and here's the kicker. There's another catch, one Metatron didn't mention yesterday, not that that surprises Dean. But it’s a pain in his ass nonetheless, and he has to figure out a way to deal with it. Apparently, the first bright idea Dean had, to leave himself clues so that he could get the job done even if he forgot it, is seriously flawed. Because the more times he reads this scroll to remind himself of the steps, the more clues he leaves himself, the faster the memory magic will work. He has to find a balance somehow, which is damn hard to do when nothing has clarified just how fast he can expect to start forgetting things.

It's gonna be a piece of cake, really.

"About time you open this damn trunk," Crowley whines. "You know, just because I don't _need_ to breathe doesn't mean I don't want to."

"Shut up," Dean snaps.

Surprisingly, Crowley obeys. Maybe Sam's attempt to cure him hasn't completely worn off just yet. Or maybe a month trapped in a trunk under a devil's trap has given him some perspective on who exactly is in charge here.

"There's a ritual to break into Heaven. Do you know it?"

"Know it? All I know is you need an angel's grace to do it, and the only way to get that is to carve it out of their chest. Do I look suicidal to you?" Crowley laughs. "Mate, if I was that reckless and knew how to break into Heaven, do you think I would have tried making a fair deal with your trench coat obsessed angel pal to get more souls?"

Dean shrugs. "Fine," he says, reaching back to close the trunk.

"Stop, please. I can't take this anymore. Let me out of here, I can try to help you find someone who knows what to do."

"That's not good enough, Crowley. I need to find it. I need it in the next twelve hours or less."

The demon sighs. "Oh, don't tell me someone introduced you to that blasted amnesia resurrection spell."

Dean must look guilty, because Crowley takes his answer for granted. "You know none of the poor bastards who have tried that have ever come out on the right side of it? Heaven doesn't deal fair like Hell does. That spell is rigged."

"I know that," Dean growls. "But—"

"Yes, I know. But Sam, wah wah wah, as usual. Don't you think Sam being in Heaven is good enough? Why don't you just leave it alone?" He laughs. "You and your brother have been frustrating my plans for how many years now, four? Five? I almost think of you two as friends. So let me just say: seriously, even I am starting to worry about you two."

"How about you stow the friendly advice and shut the hell up if you're not gonna be any use to me?"

"Look, I really don't know the spell. But I know of a demon that does. He was pals with Uriel back in the day. They used to arrange meetings, Uriel would provide grace from the angels he'd killed so this guy could get into Heaven, help him talk converts over to the darkside."

"What’s his name?"

"His name?" Crowley yells. "His name is get me the hell out of this trunk and then we can talk!"

"How do I know you're not lying?"

Crowley glares. "You got time to be suspicious, Clementine?" 

He's right. Dean hates that he's right, but he's right. He pulls out Ruby's knife, holds it up clear for Crowley to see. "I'm going to pull you out of there slowly. You are not going to try anything, or I am going to watch you choke on your own blood. Are we clear?"

"King of Hell and you want me to, what, cry over that butter knife?"

"You're not half as hot as Abaddon, and I know you can't take this blade like she can. And you're not the King of Hell anymore, you're a guy locked in a box. So stow the ego. If you had any power or friends left, someone would have busted your ass out of there weeks ago."

Crowley's eyes narrow, but he nods when Dean asks, "Are we clear?"

"The demon you want is named Antros," Crowley tells him as he climbs out and dusts off his suit. "We can summon him, but I'll warn you now, he's never been sweet on me."

"I'll summon him," Dean says. "You just…go."

Crowley stares at him for a long minute. "Is this a trick?"

"You and Abaddon are gonna be too busy trying to kill each other to bother going after people, and I don't have time to worry about what to do with you. Now get out of here before I change my—"

Crowley has vanished before he even finishes his sentence, and Dean turns his attention immediately to gathering the supplies he'll need to summon Antros.

An hour later, Dean has rolled out the rug he and Sam keep in the car, devil's trap side down, and he's working the spell from memory, throwing in some of the magic Enochian words the scroll said he would need to chant every four hours and mentally walking himself through all the next steps so he's sure they're clear in his mind.

A tall, skinny man with dirty orange hair and freckles appears in the middle of the room, just over the trap. Dean grins.

"Gotcha," he says.

Antros rolls his eyes. "Dean Winchester. And I was doing such a good job avoiding meeting you."

"That hurts my feelings," Dean replies. Then he cuts to the point, "I need a ritual, I know you know it, so let's skip the crap. Tell me how to get into Heaven, and I might not spill your guts all over this fine motel room."

"Who told you I know how to do that?" the demon asks, giving him a probing look. "How do you even know who I am?"

"Don't get too inflated. An old friend ratted you out."

"Crowley," says Antros, his hands curling into fists. "Oh, I cannot wait to see the day Abaddon tears that smug little bastard apart."

"Sadly, you're not gonna live long enough to see it if you don't hurry up and give me what I need."

"Need?" Antros asks, giving Dean a curious look. "What do you want with that spell, anyway? I know you're not working for the angels, trying to help them get home. From what I hear, you hate them almost as much as you hate us. So what then?"

"None of your business," says Dean.

The demon smiles. "Oh, right, gotta save baby brother. Everyone in Heaven and Hell knows you can't get off without him." His eyes slide to black. "Sorry, did I say off? I meant on. But who am I kidding? You and Sam aren't exactly a well-kept secret. How long has that been happening, Dean? How long have you been shacking up with your own brother?" He shakes his head as his eyes go back to green. "And you think demons are filthy?"

It's trying to get a rise out of him, Dean knows that. Normally, it might even work. Now, it just sends panic clawing up through Dean.

Him and Sam—he remembers a million times and he remembers before it started. But as he reaches back, tries to pin down the when and how, it eludes him. There's empty space there. He hadn't even noticed until he went looking for it.

Imagining losing Sam at the start of this…Dean assumed it would hit hard. Of course he would be able to feel Sam slipping away. But here's something that must have been important, a memory worth hanging on to. Dean hadn't felt any pain when it vanished. He knows there's something missing, logically, there must be. But he doesn't feel the loss. That's more terrifying than the black hole he expected. When Sam's gone, Dean won't even suspect he ever had anything to lose.

He swallows hard, trying not to wonder what else he's already forgotten without realizing it. How many gapped-tooth smiles has he dropped in the last two hours? How many school projects, near death experiences, quiet kisses under the stars?

Dean feels like he has everything, like he could never let a single moment of Sam's life go. But there's a ghost hovering over him, like Sam is there, pulling him in, kissing him. Dean reaches out to catch the memory, but it's gone. The harder he tries, he can almost remember it, but not really. Like a thought on the tip of his tongue, Dean knows he knows it, but he can't answer the demon's question, and every moment he stands here silently freaking out about it, maybe that's one more moment he spent with his brother that he'll never get back.

  


**June 24, 2006**  


He thinks it's a fight at first.

Sam had all the luck tonight; one girl worth taking home walked into the bar they picked, and she was batting her eyes at him faster than Dean could even try offering her a drink.

Dean sat off to the side for an hour and a half, watching Sam's throat work around his beer, trying not to imagine those lips wrapped around his cock instead, Adam's apple bobbing as he struggles to swallow everything Dean pours into him.

Truth is, Dean needed a distraction tonight. A pretty girl with a nice smile, willing to laugh at his jokes, willing to keep him busy for a few hours, so he can blow off some pent up frustration, and, god, stop thinking about his brother every time he gets hard. He needed that, and instead he gets to watch Sam flirt up a storm. He knows this is good for him. He hadn't expected Sam to be up to this just months after losing Jess, and Dean knows Sam's been lonely.

But fuck if he isn't a little bitter, a little jealous, a little wishing things were different, that they lived in a time and place where he could be enough to keep Sam far from lonely, where they could both get off on each other without someone going home aching.

He tries to be cool, tries to sound proud of Sam instead of pissed when he claps his brother on the back and says he's going to the motel. Maybe it doesn't come out so convincing, but that doesn't mean Sam had to drop what he was doing, close off his tab, and follow Dean back.

Sam is sour for the rest of the night, and normally Dean would ignore it, but tonight he snaps instead. When Sam makes a huffy comment, Dean yells back about Sam being a big boy and it not being Dean's problem that he still feels like he needs permission if he wants to get laid.

The way Sam moves, Dean is sure a fist is coming. That fast flash of anger in Sam's face, the way he's across the room in seconds—Dean knows how Sam fights. Hell, he taught the kid most of what he knows.

"Is that what you think happened?" Sam growls, grabbing Dean's shoulders and pushing him back against the thin wall. "You think I'm a coward or something? That I can't go after what I want?"

Dean shrugs. He wasn't trying to start an argument, and he knows Sam's probably got his own reasons not to want to take a chance letting another girl in after what happened to the last one. He can tell that Sam's expecting some witty retort, but Dean is fresh out. "I don't know, Sammy. All I'm saying is, don't act like I ruined your night when you—"

"I'm not a coward," Sam insists, and Dean nearly laughs, not sure who Sam is trying to convince until Sam shoves him back again, and before Dean can defend himself, Sam's mouth is pressed against his. He pulls away quickly, keeps his eyes on Dean's like he's daring Dean to react badly, and Dean is too stunned to even breathe, let alone take the challenge.

Then he blinks, and it's like Sam is waking up from a dream. From a nightmare. "I'm sorry," he says, holding a hand out between him and Dean. "I'm sorry—fuck! I'm so sorry."

"Don't you dare," Dean growls, pushing Sam's arm out of the way and fisting his hands in Sam's shirt. "Don't you dare take it back. You can't just do that and then take it back."

Sam meets his eyes but doesn't move. Doesn't say anything, except one hushed syllable. "Dean?"

Whenever he allowed himself to imagine this, it was out of his control: alcohol induced or some sick witch's idea of a joke. But Dean is sober as he steps forward, and he knows exactly what he's doing when he puts a hand over each of Sam's ears and tugs his brother's face back into his. The truth is, Dean has been wishing for this since before Sam went to school. Missing him for four years only made it worse, and living an inch apart for the last nine months it's become impossible to ignore.

Dean swore to himself he would never act on it, but that was when he didn't have a way to know if Sam wanted it, too. Now Sam's started it—Sam kissed him, and pushing him away would be one denial too many. Dean can't make himself do it. Sure, it's not witchcraft, but it's not entirely willful, either. There's just no stopping this now that it's started. Dean doesn't need a spell to need Sam.

He kisses Sam deep and deeper, their tongues sliding together, Sam so eager it's like he's trying to crawl inside of Dean. Dean wants to let him in, wants to give Sam somewhere warm and safe to stay forever. That’s all he ever wanted. Somewhere along the road it got twisted around, became ugly, but it doesn't seem so ugly when Sam pulls away, presses his forehead to Dean's, and smiles like he hasn't, not since Jessica died.

They kiss for a long time before Dean can't stop himself from moving things along. And that—that's something he knows he'll never let himself forget. Because sure, Sam kissed him first, but Dean's the one that started stripping. He's the one that steered Sam toward the nearest bed, sent them both tumbling back, slowly and deliberately took his brother apart, watched Sam fall to pieces under his hands and mouth, shaking and trying to scream but too damn full of Dean's dick to manage anything more than whimpers.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, and he's alone, and that's okay. That feels right. Makes his chest ache like a ghost sinking their nails in—but it's for the best. Sam must have realized, sometime after Dean fell asleep, just how fucked up what they did was and fled to his bed. Maybe they can just go on, pretend it never happened.

But when he looks, the other bed is empty, too, still made with Dean's duffel sitting on it, clothes tossed everywhere from when he went digging through it for lube and condoms, too desperate to care about years of Dad training them to stay tidy. He hears the toilet flush, the click of the door turning, and watches the light from the bathroom flicker off.

Dean closes his eyes, pretending to be asleep, curious what Sam will do. He peeks, though, eyes only mostly lidded, so he can see his brother, slivers of pale moonlight through the motel blinds making him visible for seconds at a time. He's all shadow and cut muscle, and Dean watches his thick thighs, Sam's soft cock between his legs. If he were halfway decent, he'd shut this out, but he can't, not when Sam is so _naked_ , unhurried and unashamed, and Dean may never get to see him like this again.

"Dean," he whispers. "Dean, are you awake?"

Sam doesn't wait for an answer, and Dean keeps right on playing like he's out cold, closing his eyes completely. So he doesn’t see that Sam chose to come back to his bed.

The mattress dips, and Sam just sits there on the other end for a long minute. Dean doesn't know what he's doing, but eventually Sam shifts and Dean feels his body heat hovering by his side. The sheets loosely puddled around Dean's hips get pushed down, and Sam touches him, just the barest trace of his fingertips along the length of Dean's cock.

It's not enough to make him hard, and Dean is torn between demanding that Sam give him more and suppressing the shiver that wants to work its way through him. In the end, he decides to play it safe, keeps still as a stone, making sure his breath is even.

Sam must believe that he's still asleep, because he draws closer then, wrapping his body around Dean's, pushing his fingers softly through the hair above Dean's ear, and tucking his face into the nook of Dean's neck, taking a deep breath.

When Dean wakes up the next morning, Sam is still there. Still gloriously naked, and Dean's still too damn weak to push him away. He watches his brother until Sam blinks his eyes open, making a soft, content noise and stretching.

He looks at Dean, and it's not really a surprise that the first thing he says is, "We should talk."

Dean tells him to shut up. Makes him shut up with his mouth on Sam's. He rolls over on top of his brother and pounds him so fucking hard Sam can't talk about anything, let alone the broader implications of Dean's dick up his ass.

It's a violent start. It'll probably have a violent end. You don't do things like this and not bump up against some pretty shitty consequences. Not that that's gonna make Dean back out. Hell, he jumps in faster.

  


**NOW**  


"Hey, Dean," Antros says cheerfully. "What's your favorite dating website, ancestry.com?"

Dean doesn't even think, a hot rage taking hold of him. He's more pissed at the fact that he can't remember the first time he and Sam fucked than the inane jokes, but the demon is the only thing he has here to lash out on.

Ruby's knife is at Antros's throat before the demon is even done laughing, but it stops pretty fast.

"You need me," it reminds Dean.

"Yeah," Dean says. "And I know all kinds of places I can cut that won't kill you. But you'll wish they did. Should we test this?"

The demon is taking very shallow breaths, trying not to let the skin of his throat brush up against the sharp blade of the knife. "Is it true?" Antros asks. "That you studied under Alastair?"

Dean nods, keeping his eyes locked on the demon's.

It swallows hard. "You can trap an angel's grace in a vial blessed by holy water and oil if it has the right markings on it. But you have to carve it out of their chest, and it's a slow process, from what I hear. You gotta get every drop and make sure they don't die before you've drained them."

"From what you hear?"

"I never collected the grace myself. Are you crazy? Hold one of those things down and wait to see if it decides to _let me_ cut into it? I would have burnt my eyes out just trying to look to see if I'd trapped it all." It shakes its head. "No way. Uriel supplied the grace. I was putting my ass on the line enough just by going into Heaven."

"Fine," Dean snaps. "I'll worry about the grace, tell me how to do the ritual."

"This is a suicide mission," the demon says. "Your brother must have had one sweet ass."

Dean doesn't reply, just presses the knife closer to Antros's throat, drawing enough blood to scare the bastard.

"Your funeral," says Antros. "Alright, here's what you need to do…"

  


**February 13, 2007**

"You want me?" Sam is half naked, lying on his back with his legs open and his hard cock showing through his boxers. He's staring up at Dean with this come-fuck-me expression that could melt an iceberg.

All Dean can think is _what a stupid question_ , but he doesn't waste his breath saying it. In the space of a second he's already edging onto the bed and Sam is sucking that breath out of him instead.

"Tell me, Dean," Sam begs. "Tell me you want me."

This right here, this is Dean's favorite Sam. Unashamed to beg and pawing at Dean everywhere with his big, capable hands. So needy for Dean's cock, so slutty to get fucked, and it's a nice change, because if he's being honest, Dean's usually the one grasping desperately, trying to keep his brother too close.

"Wanna do all kinds of things to you," Dean promises, turning his face enough to bite at Sam's jaw.

Sam shakes his head, but he leans into Dean at the same time. "Tell me you want me."

"Don't be stupid, Sammy," Dean says. "You know I do."

Sam beams at that, like a damn kid on Christmas, like he still does every time, and Dean tries not to wonder when it'll get old for Sam. A long time from now, hopefully, cause Dean sure isn't tiring of that smile.

"Want you to fuck me," Sam tells him, and Dean huffs out a laugh as he starts to suck at the other side of Sam's neck. That was pretty clear already, but there's Dean's little brother for you. Always running his mouth, except when Dean's got it stuffed full.

He slips his hand down past the elastic of Sam's boxers to feel that big, hard dick. Sam groans as soon as Dean is touching him, and Dean reaches even lower, slipping one dry finger into Sam.

"Hold—hold on," Sam gasps after Dean fingers him for a few minutes. "Not gonna get anywhere like this."

He pulls away, leaving Dean on his knees at the foot of the bed, cold air where there was too much sweat and body heat a moment ago. He doesn't even think to be upset. There's no doubting Sam has exactly the same thing on his mind that Dean does, and it's not a bad consolation prize once Sam swings his legs off the end of the bed and pulls his boxers off.

Dean keeps his eyes on Sam's ass as he ruffles through a duffel for lube and comes back with no condom, a clear invitation for Dean to fuck him skin-to-skin, leave Sam a dripping mess. It won't be the first time, but it's not something they do often, not usually a risk worth taking.

But it's been weeks since anyone other than Sam has been near him, and Dean isn't about to turn down the offer if Sam wants it. He has to wonder, though, what exactly it is driving Sam tonight. Not that his little brother being horny is new to Dean, but Sam's been itching for it all day, and Dean's not sure how, but it feels like this has something to do with being possessed by Meg. He's not a genius when it comes to reading people's feelings, but he's pretty good at figuring Sam out, and there's no way Sam has dealt with the guilt yet.

This, fucking Dean every chance he gets? This is a happy-Sam thing to do, so while he's not complaining, he's a little surprised it's happening so soon after. He'd expected Sam to be moping much longer than this.

Sam tosses Dean the lube, and Dean squeezes some out onto his fingers. By the time he looks up again, Sam is already on the bed, on all fours in front of Dean.

"That how you want it?" Dean asks, shuffling so he's closer to Sam, so he can tease two fingers from Sam's balls up to his hole and push in roughly.

Sam reaches forward, bracing himself on the headboard, and shakes his head. "Just open me up like this."

Dean does, enjoying the view while he has it. Once they're both satisfied that Sam is loose enough, Dean backs off, letting Sam choose a position. Sam catches his wrist without turning and leads Dean forward, until they're chest to back on their knees.

"Like this," Sam says, grabbing Dean's thigh and pulling their bodies flush together. "Want you just like this."

Dean kisses him, kisses down his neck until Sam lifts his arm and Dean tucks his head under. He mouths at Sam's chest, tongue passing over the raised skin of Sam's nipple.

Sam buries a hand in his hair as Dean sucks at him, and Dean wants to touch, too. He has so much bare chest here that's all his to do what he wants to. So he splays his palm over Sam's heart and runs his hand all the way down, just slow enough to get a feel for his brother, all the way to Sam's strong thighs.

"God, Dean," Sam whines, throwing his head back. "Get in me."

His cock is trapped between them, already pressing against Sam's cheeks. Dean doesn't even have to stop feeling Sam up to force his other hand between them, guiding himself into Sam. 

"Jesus," Sam pants, pushing back so that Dean is all the way inside of him. "Jesus, yes, fuck. Yes."

Dean grunts to let Sam know he's on the same page, pumps his hips forward fast and deep. This is a good angle, Sam pretty much seated on his cock so Dean can go in so far he thinks he might never get out, and that's fine with him.

It does make kissing awkward, but Sam's not letting that stop him, turning his head back so Dean can find his mouth over his shoulder. They make out as Dean digs his fingers into Sam's sides, holding on hard and bringing him in over and over. It's rougher than he means to be, but he can't help it. Sam is a tight, hot vice around his dick and he's still begging, like Dean isn't giving it to him as hard as he can take. Like he wants more.

"Fuck, Dean," Sam says, pushing his ass back and up in a way that makes them both shout. He falls forward, onto all fours, and Dean follows him down, glues his chest to Sam's back again because he doesn't like space between them, not after being so close, not even when his dick is still all the way up inside of his brother.

"Dean, Dean." Sam's hands are bunched in the sheets, his forehead dropping to the mattress as he keeps working his ass up. "Fuck! Fuck me, yeah. Come on."

"You want more?" Dean asks, and even knowing Sam likes to be ridden hard, he's a little surprised Sam nods. But it's good, it's hot. It's so fucking hot that he feels a little possessed himself, unable to restrain himself from pushing Sam's head down and holding it there, slotting his other hand under Sam's arm and grasping his shoulder so he can really pull himself up and in, and that's it. He can't go any deeper. He can't fuck Sam harder than this. It's too perfect to bear.

"Good," Sam whimpers. "Ow—ah. Fuck. Dean. It's so good."

"God, you like that, huh?" Sam nods, and Dean keeps going. "You take it so good, Sammy. So damn good on my cock, I can't even tell you."

Sam is beyond talking now. He's panting up a storm every time Dean shoves into him, grinding his cock on the mattress.

"You can come, Sam," Dean tells him. "You wanna touch yourself? I'm not—not gonna last much—"

"Like this." Sam lets go of the sheets and reaches back with one hand, gripping Dean's ass as he thrusts. "Give it to me like this and I'm—I'll. Yeah, God. I'll get there."

"No way," Dean says, hips working even faster just at the thought. He's never gotten Sam off like that before. Isn't completely sure he believes he can do it, but damned if he isn't gonna try.

"Come on, come on," Sam pleads. "Let me have it."

One, two, three, four, and Dean sinks into Sam, balls deep, letting his dick pulse inside his brother. Sam gasps, his ass milking everything out of Dean as he keeps working his hips.

He rests there for a while, cock still hard as a few last waves of pleasure finish him off. But Sam is still going for it, humping away like a horny teenager, and Dean's a little disappointed he couldn't get Sam off untouched, but he'll take pity.

"Let me touch you," he offers, trying to fit his hand in, but Sam catches his wrist, holds onto it and brings it up above his head.

"Kiss me," says Sam. "And I'll—ah. Ah, fuck, yeah."

Dean catches those cries with his mouth, licks his way into Sam, and to his surprise, it's only a few more seconds before Sam actually does it, comes off of nothing but Dean's now-soft dick inside him and the limited friction he's getting from fucking the mattress.

For a while, Dean stays right where he is, weighing Sam down with his body like a human shield, tracing things he'll never say into the sweat on Sam's back. Then Sam grabs his hand and weaves their fingers together, tugging Dean's arm so it's wrapped around his middle.

He takes the hint, moving enough to the side that he isn't crushing Sam but keeping his face resting on Sam's shoulder blade and his arm hugged around where his brother put it.

They're quiet for a long time, first regaining their breath, then too content in the post-sex haze to really think of anything to say.

Or at least that's why Dean's quiet, and he thinks it's the same for Sam until his brother crosses his arms on his pillow and props his head on top of them. "Hey, Dean."

"Mmm?"

"You're glad we do this, right?" There's a short pause and he adds, "You don't regret it?"

Fuck, he thinks. Usually he's ready for this—Sam tries to do this nearly every damn time they fuck—but he'd kind of thought he'd fucked Sam too thoroughly to have to worry about dodging it tonight.

"Oh, come on, Sam." He sits up. "We really gonna do this? Man, I'm tired."

"I'm just trying to—"

"Talk about it," Dean finishes for him. "I know. Everyone knows. Everyone's grandma knows."

Sam flips over onto his back so he can look up at Dean. "I just want to know we're on the same page about this."

"We're in the same bed, aren't we?"

"Yeah, but—"

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Doesn't this ever get old to you? It always ends the same, so why keep bringing it up?"

"Because I need to know," Sam answers. "I deserve to know."

"Know what? The situation is pretty black and white from where I'm sitting."

"Do you regret doing this with me?"

Dean laughs dismissively. "I come back every night, what does that tell you?"

"That's not what I asked," says Sam. "There are lots of things you do over and over that I know for a fact you're ashamed of. And you deal with them exactly the same way you deal with this. You drink. You refuse to talk about it—"

Dean rolls his eyes and gets out of bed, grabbing the first shirt he sees off the floor and pulling it on over his head.

"You do that."

"Do what?" Dean asks as he scans the room for boxers, his jeans, anything that'll make him just a little less naked.

"Pretend it didn't happen. Scramble to get dressed as if you being decent is going to change the fact that you were naked in bed with me a minute ago."

He winces—guilty and obvious—but doesn't turn to look at his brother. "When are you gonna stop bothering me with this, Sam? You're driving me crazy."

"Today. Right now." It sounds too good to be true, and then Sam continues, "We'll never do it again, and I won't bother you about it anymore."

"C'mon," Dean says, almost laughing at how goddamn dramatic his brother is. "I didn’t say I wanted to stop."

"I need you to tell me you don't regret this, Dean. In those words. I need to hear it." Sam pauses, and Dean's about to try derailing the conversation again, but then his brother's voice goes soft. Nervous and insecure, and Sam—insecure was never Sam's problem. "Look, I don't know why you do this with me. If it's just because I'm here and it feels good or, god forbid, if you only do it because you think it's what I want—"

Dean freezes with only one foot in his jeans and turns to face his brother. "It isn't? You don't want it?"

"Not like this."

Infuriatingly unhelpful, that answer. "Like what then? Me on the bottom? I'm cool with that, too. Never said I wasn't."

"No, fuck, Dean—" Sam sighs like Dean is the biggest idiot he's ever met and wipes a hand over his mouth. "Not if you regret it."

"Why's that so important to you? Even if I do, it's not like it's stopping me."

"I can't tell you," Sam says, looking down at his hands, and there it is again, that self-conscious little edge Dean isn't used to hearing from his brother. It's amazing how much he looks like a kid for a moment. "You'll make fun of me."

"I won't," Dean says.

"You always do." He opens his mouth, but Sam lifts a hand, cutting him off, "Even when you promise not to."

"Well, just this one time, I really mean it. I swear on pie." Dean crosses his heart and steps closer to the bed, trying to look earnest.

Sam laughs a little, thank god, just enough to lighten the mood. Just enough for his dimples to show and make Dean's chest tighten and expand both at the same time. Maybe he'll make it through this conversation after all.

Finally, Sam decides to talk, and he looks up, right into Dean's eyes. "This is the only thing that makes me feel good. And I don't mean feel good like sex, because obviously, but…this is the only thing that makes me feel like maybe _I'm_ good. Like I can really be good and stay good. No matter what Dad told you, or what all those demons say, or what my destiny is. I don't know who I am anymore, Dean. And I'm scared. I'm so scared they're right about me. I worry about it all the time. And then you…"

He looks away, his cheeks burning red. "You look at me like you believe I'm better than I ever could be. You touch me and I can't remember anyone else, and I think maybe—just maybe—I can fight whatever's inside me, for your sake if not my own. So if this is something bad you do because it feels good, if you look back on it the next day as some dark, fucked up mistake we keep making, then it's a lie. And I have no idea what I'm going to hold on to."

Dean swallows hard after Sam finishes, and the silence that follows those words hangs heavy between them. He moves to take a seat at the foot of Sam's bed.

"One time," he says, holding up a finger. "I'm going to say this one time, and you are never going to ask again, got it?"

Sam nods, holding his gaze until Dean has to look away. He can't handle seeing Sam's face and being honest at the same time. Not if Sam reacts the way he should. Not if he realizes once Dean admits this out loud that Dean is right.

"I wake up every morning expecting you to change your mind. To realize you deserve better than to be stuck with me your whole life. Like you did when you left for Stanford. I'd thought maybe you wouldn't notice back then, but you did, and then you were gone.

"I wake up every morning with this dread, convinced you'll have figured it out overnight that you can do better. Confused when you haven't, because it's so goddamn obvious to me, and it always has been.

"I run away in the morning because if it is that day, I don't want you to feel guilty for leaving me, or like you have to stay for my sake. I don’t want you to know how much it's gonna crush me. How bad it was last time. I want you to go chase something worthy of you, college again or a girl like Jess or a family, whatever you want that isn't being shackled to my sorry ass. I fucked it up last time. I was too selfish to tell you I was proud—which I was—or give you an out that wouldn't push you away completely. So I could still have you just a little bit. Once or twice a year, a phone call every now and then to hear you're okay. If I'd had those things while you were at school—it doesn't matter. My point is, when you leave next time, I don't want it to be hating me. I know it's gonna happen. I'm trying to be ready for it."

"Dean, I never hated—"

Dean shakes his head, puts his hand on the lump of comforter over Sam's feet to silence his brother, because he won't get this out if he stops now, and Sam said he needed to hear it. He just wishes his voice wasn't breaking. "If you're asking do I regret having you every second until you decide I'm not enough? I will never be sorry, Sammy. I've tried so hard to make myself feel ashamed for touching you, but I'm not and I'm not going to be. I would have to be an idiot to turn you away as long as you think I can make you happy."

There's no rain of pink confetti from the ceiling when Dean finishes, but he still feels like he's trapped in a damn Jennifer Lopez movie. It's awkward and lame and fucking embarrassing, and that's without letting himself consider that Sam might be done with him now that he's come clean.

He looks up and sees the way Sam is watching him. He can't read that expression, not completely, but Sam pulls him in for a kiss.

"You're really stupid," Sam whispers softly against his lips, "if you think I left because you weren't good enough—or ever will."

Dean opens his mouth to put an end to this, but Sam covers his lips with his fingers.

"I know," he says fondly. "The conversation's over and we're not having it again. But you're so wrong. I want you to know that. I'll make you see it someday."

Dean could say the same about Sam and the lunatic notion that he could ever go bad. But he doesn't. He tries to show Sam instead.

  


**NOW**  


He prays to Cas for help as he slits Antros's throat. He's been praying to Cas every day since Sam first got sick, so it's not really a surprise when there's still no response. The obvious explanation is too depressing to even think about, so Dean doesn't let himself dwell. He's making good time, he thinks, six hours in and he knows what to do, but not how to do it. There's certainly no time for mourning fallen comrades, not while Dean still has a brother to grieve.

The demon gives him a betrayed look as he sinks to his knees, and Dean wastes no time wrapping it in one of the sheets off the bed and packing the corpse into the motel dumpster. It's not a suave kill by any means, but he doesn't have time to be tidy. The ritual Antros explained to him is going to take at least nine hours between gathering supplies, setting up, and all the necessary steps, and he still has to figure out the angel grace before he can even start on that.

Cas could have told him what would trap an angel, maybe did when he was going over everything Naomi did to him in Heaven. But there had been so much information flying at them at once: trials, tablets, Sam sick—Dean didn't pay as close attention as he could have. Crowley, too, might have helped, if Dean had been smart enough to hold on to him—didn't he keep Samandriel strapped to that chair for long weeks of torture? But the demon, unsurprisingly, does not answer his summon.

He drives back to the bunker, doesn't even stop by the cold chamber to say hello to Sam before hitting the books. Three hours of research in he's still got bumpkis, because knowing where to start looking has never been his strong spot. Sam probably had the whole library memorized—if Sam were here, they would have cracked this an hour ago, had time for a blowjob and some burgers before heading out.

 _If Sam were here_ , Dean thinks bitterly, scoffing and taking a long pull from his drink.

Dean gives up on hour five, with nothing to show except for a spell that'll call the nearest angels to him. Won't force them to answer the call, won't bind them, won't hurt them, certainly isn't gonna make one sit still for him. He's got nothing, the first half of his three days already wasted.

Sam's room is just how he left it. Dean doesn't sink into the bed like he wants to, because however defeated he might be feeling, sleeping when he's only got sixty hours left is too much of a waste. He knows he'll have to go back out and do more research soon, but for now he whispers the Enochian words of the ritual, taking some heart from the fact that he still has them memorized, and sinks into the chair at Sam's desk.

There's a mess of papers and open books all over the surface, and Dean smiles faintly, thinking of Sam sitting here working. Sick from the trials, already hours into trying to crack something. That dweeb probably snuck this stuff in here after Dean had put his foot down and told Sam to go to bed and get some rest. That's just like Sam, always staying up late, reading or doing homework with a flashlight under the covers.

Apparently, Dean is feeling even more self-loathing than usual, because he picks up some of the loose sheets in Sam's scrawled handwriting, the way he wrote when he was starting to fall asleep on the job, and starts reading through them, trying to figure out what Sam was working on.

There's a bunch of stuff from various jobs: a few newspaper clippings with possible hunts, notes on tracking hellhounds from the first trial, a detailed account of his trip to Purgatory and Hell ('for the reference of future Men of Letters,' Sam had added in the cramped margins of his journal).

Dean's almost smiling as he thumbs a few pages back, and then he nearly drops the book from excitement.

There's a lot of things recorded that Sam must have tripped onto while he was poring over the Men of Letters' collection that he didn't bother telling Dean about, and amongst them is the spell that witch Don had used back when they were hunting leviathan.

Next to the instructions, Sam has annotated some of his thoughts. _Very powerful_ and _only lasts for a few days_ and at the very bottom of the page, circled and underlined, like he had somehow anticipated Dean would need this and not have Sam around to guide him, _works on angels too?_

He pockets the journal, then goes to the weapons room to pick up one of the angel blades Cas had given them and bless a vial strong enough to hold an angel.

Dean feels so confident as he prepares to head out to find an angel for the ritual that he decides to indulge a little. So he heads down the familiar hallway to the cold chamber, but he stops before letting himself in.

"What am I doing?" Dean thinks, hovering by the door, not sure why he came here. "There's no exit this way."

It's not until he's pulling the car out of the garage that he remembers that he had been going to visit Sam.

  


**October 4, 1989**  


"Read it again, Dean!" Sam begs. Dean rolls his eyes. He's already read this part four times, but it's Sam's favorite, and Sam cracks up, his little body kicking with glee as Dean does the voices for the characters in the scene.

He's tired now, still has to check the salt lines on the doors and windows before going to sleep. But he can't say no outright. Sam has only just started to relax after his nightmare, which Dean knows Sam wouldn’t have had at all if Dean hadn't messed up.

He shudders thinking of the Shtriga and tries to keep his own fear in check. "Why don't you read it this time?"

Sam gives him a wide-eyed look of betrayal, and Dean laughs. "Come on, Sammy. You can do it. You know what it says."

His little brother pouts, shaking his head, but Dean pulls Sam onto his lap and holds the book out in front of Sam. Sam begins with some annoyance, but by the end of the page he's starting to push through with more enthusiasm.

"You're doing great," Dean encourages, yawning as subtly as he can. He's not really listening all that much, but Sam's broken reading is a good, calming sound. Dean knows he's the one looking out for Sam, but hearing his brother's voice makes him feel safe somehow.

It's not long before Dean feels himself falling asleep. He thinks Sam will be mad at him for that, but Sam crawls into his bed again the next night with a new book, one he doesn't have memorized, and he works his way through that one with Dean's help.

Sam reads him to sleep every night for six months, and after that, it's almost impossible to find his brother without a book in his hand.

  


**NOW**  


Power shoots out of Dean, a satisfying tingling sensation as he watches the angel fall over stiff, white lightning coursing through his body. Caught as soon as he answered Dean's summons, and Dean is a little annoyed no one was around to see how smoothly that went.

"Hey there," he says, walking over to the body, looking down at it on the ground and smiling.

The angel's vessel is a young guy, brown hair and green eyes, a good square jaw that's set in a tight frown. "Hello."

"And who might you be?" Dean asks.

"My name is Gadreel," the angel says. "You are Dean Winchester."

Dean smirks. "I don't like to brag."

"Why have you restrained me?" he asks. "I answered your summons with peaceful intentions."

There's no denying Dean's curious about why the angel did come, but he doesn't have time to stop and chitchat. "Yeah, sorry in advance."

He crouches down, on level with the angel, and slices through the guy's shirt, exposing his chest. "What are you doing?" the angel asks, suddenly panicked, his voice gaining even more hysteria when he sees Dean pull the blade and vial out of his bag. "What do you intend to do?"

"Ah," Dean says guiltily. "I'm—I'm sorry. I need your grace."

"No, stop, please. I knew your friend, Castiel. I mean you well."

Dean hesitates. "Cas? You know where Cas is?"

"Cas is dead," Gadreel says. "Or might as well be. Either way, it doesn't matter. I'm stronger than he is. I can be your friend now. I can help you more than Cas could if you leave my grace intact."

"Screw you," says Dean, sinking the blade in. "Cas ain't dead."

"Please—please!" Gadreel begs as Dean slowly begins to draw the pattern that will allow his grace to filter from his chest into the vial. "I know why you are doing this. I have a better way to save your brother."

Dean digs in deeper, not liking to hear angels that don't know anything claim otherwise. This one has no right to talk about his brother, and there's no denying the sick sense of satisfaction he still gets, this many years after Hell, watching a blade slice through skin.

He feels his chest tighten with guilt and pain at the thought, reminds himself that there is a person in here, a person he is killing, and even if the angel deserves this, the vessel doesn't. But he has to do it to—

Dean pauses. Why is he doing this again?

"Sam is…" the angel is saying, but Dean tunes out everything but the name. Sam, of course. He's saving Sam. How the hell could he forget that?

He stops for a moment, lifting the blade from Gadreel's chest to his own forearm, and he carves slow and steady. SAVE SAM in big red letters, blood gathering up on each line. He's not supposed to leave himself clues, he knows, but that's one thing he can't risk forgetting. SAM he writes again below it and SAVE YOUR BROTHER.

It burns in a satisfying way, and Dean tries not to linger on that, on the reminder of the days when he was freshly made, Alastair's favorite new monster, and even Sam was no comfort to him. But, well, at least he remembers it. At least he can hold on to the memory as he pushes through the task at hand.

  


**May 6, 2009**  


They drive about twenty miles out of Pontiac before Dean has to stop for gas. Neither of them has said a word, Sam sitting in the passenger's side, staring out the window. Even music feels out of place, so he leaves it off, his thoughts uninterrupted, growing uglier by the second.

By the time they get out of the car, Dean's hand is cramping from gripping the steering wheel so tight.

Sam goes in to pay, comes back out with two bottles of water and Dean's favorite candy bar, and somehow that only makes him want to punch his brother more. Everything he just did, and he thinks a fucking candy bar is gonna fix something?

"Guess you've already eaten," Dean says when Sam hands him the king-sized Payday.

Sam flinches, but he doesn't take the bait. He looks sad, but not sorry. Never sorry. So goddamn self-assured lately, and now Dean knows why. He hovers by Dean's side as Dean pumps the gas, and finally he reaches out.

Dean pulls his arm away before Sam can touch it, more repulsed by himself than by Sam, because he doesn't want to break the contact. All this, and Dean still wants Sam to touch him. Still wants to beg Sam to tell him he didn't see it, even if it's a lie, with enough conviction to make Dean believe it. He hates Sam—he really does, he _hates_ him right now, and he still aches to get on his knees for his brother, would die and go to Hell again tomorrow for Sam, even knowing what Sam would turn into while he was gone. He still loves Sam, even this Sam. Even like this, Dean can't make himself stop loving.

And Sam does what to win that love? Sucks blood with that mouth Dean has loved kissing so many times. Chooses a demon over him. Oh, but at least he cares enough to buy a candy bar.

"Don't," Dean says. "Just don't."

Sam frowns. "Dean, I—"

"What?" Dean asks. He looks at Sam's face closely, and Sam stares back but doesn't finish his sentence.

"Nothing," says Sam, turning his back on Dean.

"You told me once that being with me made you feel like you were good," he says as Sam walks away. He swallows hard when Sam turns to look at him again. Sam had fucked Dean last night, had sucked him off like it meant something. Apparently that didn't help. "Did you think that meant you didn't actually have to be?"

Sam's eyes widen, and Dean half expects to see them go black. Finally his lips thin, and he keeps right on walking. "I'm going to take a piss."

Dean waits for Sam to turn the corner and go into the gas station bathroom before getting his cell out.

"Hey, Bobby," Dean says, not waiting for a greeting. "I need to ask you for a favor. It's about Sam."

  


**NOW**  


It's nearly an hour before Dean finally hits light, and the bright white begins to shine out of Gadreel's chest. Dean grins to himself, because the design of this was delicate and any slight tremor could have screwed him up completely. But it's working, the grace begins to obey the orders Dean carved perfectly into the flesh, because for better or worse, he's still a master with a knife. One thing he can offer his brother: a steady hand.

He mutters the ritual words to himself, Sam's name mixed in, as he works, and after a few minutes, the grace begins to shine too intensely. That's when Dean realizes that he can't watch this the way Uriel could when he was doing it. It's going to burn out his eyes, and he can already feel the exposure working against him.

But then he remembers something the demon Antros had said: he's going to need every drop of grace this angel has. He has to be sure he gets every drop.

Dean can't risk this ritual on something like this, can't choose his sight over Sam. He owes his brother better than that. So he closes and covers his right eye, but the left one he keeps trained on what he's doing.

The pain builds quickly, becomes unbearable within seconds, but luckily the grace is moving fast. Nothing on Earth, not even being torn apart by hell hounds, has ever hurt as much as the piercing sting in his left eye. But Dean stays focused, playing through the pain. It’s not so bad—40 years in Hell, he at least learned how to ignore when his body was in distress. He repeats his brother's name to remind himself why he's doing this as he lets his eye burn to nothing while he half-watches the angel scream and die.

When he twists the cap onto the vial, there's no question that he has every single ounce of grace he came for. It’s full now, the vial only a few inches tall, but the weight of what's inside it making it feel like picking up a human body. Still, Dean is used to heavy lifting.

He's in agony, his eye bleeding, probably a black hole in his face, like Pamela's had been. But it's worth it, because this was the hard part and all it cost him was a little sight.

He can't go straight on to Heaven. There was something he had to do first. Dean remembers running through the steps earlier, trying to keep himself fresh without having to consult the scroll and risk losing Sam any faster than he already has. He's already lost plenty, though he couldn't say what exactly.

"Clues," he says to himself, patting his pockets.

There's the big obvious one, of course, the words on his forearm glaring up at him in red letters that still sting. But knowing that he has to save Sam isn't going to do him any good if he can't remember how. It's a risk, he knows, but he writes down the ritual chant on a piece of scrap paper and tucks it into his pocket, then sets a phone alarm to remind him to say it every four hours.

Now if only he'd thought to do something like that sooner.

Dean gets in the car, opening the glove compartment to stow the vial of angel grace until it's time to use it. Something falls out, and Dean picks it up, remembering as he looks at the photograph that he'd stashed it here for exactly this purpose. In case he needed to remember what to do before he could use the grace.

"I guess I knew I would be going in here," Dean tells himself as he inspects the picture, holding it up on his right so he can see it through the eye that isn't burnt out and patched.

It's a man on what looks like the Fourth of July. He's raising a beer to his lips as fireworks explode behind him and smiling at whoever is holding the camera in a way that makes Dean's cock stir in his jeans. 

"Who the hell are you?" Dean asks only a second before it clicks and he feels sick. That's Sam. That's his Sam. How could he not recognize his Sam?

Dean narrows his eyes, determined to find the hint in this. A picture of Sam on the Fourth of July. It's nice, but Dean knows he didn't put it here to make himself feel nostalgic.

What year was it and what happened that year? He tries to think through all the Fourths they’ve celebrated, but of course, half the time all he finds is a great big nothing, and the farther back he goes the more he starts to panic.

"Sam," he says, biting his lip. "Shit, what are you trying to tell me?"

He turns it over, thinking maybe he was really stupid and wrote something out on the back. There are no instructions like he was both hoping and fearing there would be, because he could really use them, but something that obvious might be the reason he's struggling so much with his memory already. He's only halfway through his seventy-two hours. He should not be forgetting Sam already.

All the back says is a date: 7/4/2007.

Dean grins, suddenly realizing what he was trying to tell himself.

  


**July 4, 2007**  


Holidays are gonna suck this year. Dean already knows that every single one will, because every single one will be his last. Last Christmas. Last New Year's. Last No We Will Not Address the Fact That It's Valentine's Day.

But this one stings more than the others will, Dean is pretty sure. It's the first big one, for starters. It's also Dean's favorite, the Fourth of July always meaning a little something more to Dean ever since he watched Sam burn down that field playing with illegal fireworks Dean bought off a truck from a guy named Aloysius.

Secretly, Dean has been using them to mark precious time. Last year will go down in history as the first Fourth since he got Sam back. This year was supposed to be the second. Instead, it's the beginning of a long and bloody end.

Dean would have been happy to ignore that and go on enjoying the ride, but Sam's not letting him ignore anything. He hasn't said a word, of course. Sam has been committed to the Make Dean Happy for His Last Year campaign with the enthusiasm he once reserved for the Have Stupid Bangs and Whine About Dad approach to life. He won't say anything to upset Dean, but he doesn't need to.

Sam is sad. Not in his usual angsty way, not in the open way he had been right after Jess died. Now Sam is quietly and completely devastated. Trying so hard to make himself believe he can save Dean, but there's no hiding what he really feels. Dean knows parts of his brother even Sam doesn't.

It's enough to make a guy feel guilty. Not sorry, not when the image of Sam's dead body is branded into Dean's memories for life. Just guilty.

"You're quiet," Sam says, taking a sip from his beer and glancing at Dean. "You okay?"

"Yeah, of course." Dean grins. "Best day of the year, Sammy. Explosions, alien invasions, and all the apple pie a man could eat."

"You're unstable," Sam mutters.

He doesn't look at Dean, just keeps his eyes trained on the sky, even though there won't be fireworks for another fifteen minutes. Sam's always loved watching the stars.

Now, Dean takes advantage of his brother's distraction to memorize every little detail: the way Sam's throat moves when he swallows his beer, the stubble on his cheek, the beads of sweat on his neck, a small constellation of moles tucked behind Sam's ear. All things worth dying for.

"I'm gonna get another beer," says Dean, hopping off the hood of the Impala. "You want one?"

"I'm good," Sam says, still not looking at him.

Dean grins, mischief coursing through him as he opens the back seat of the car. Not for a drink but for something much better, and Sam won't see it coming.

At the first bright flash of light, Sam blinks with confusion, looking down as his eyebrows knit together. "What the hell?"

The Polaroid shoots out a picture and Dean doesn't bother looking at it before snapping another, this one way too close as Sam seizes forward to grab the camera.

"Just trying to preserve special holiday memories," Dean says innocently, shaking the picture out and waiting for an image to appear.

Sam's nostril takes up most of the bottom left of the frame, and Dean doubles over laughing so hard he barely notices when Sam steals the camera and starts snapping away for revenge. Then the fireworks start and Sam gets distracted, pushing the camera back into Dean's hand and returning to his seat on the hood. Dean follows him, lifting the camera one last time.

"Hey, Sam, I like the way you drink that beer."

Sam turns to him with a smile that's a mix of annoyed and endeared and a little bit of a promise of what he's gonna do when he gets Dean in the backseat.

That makes Dean set the camera aside pretty quickly, and he puts his hand in Sam's lap, slowly sliding up until he's palming at Sam's groin.

They don't make it through the fireworks before they're both too horny, before Dean has wrestled Sam into the grass and he's pushing Sam's shirt up, his fingers moving over the newly-raised skin of his tattoo. Dean ducks his head down, licking around the edges. He's got one just like it, and yeah, they were put there for a practical reason, but that doesn't change the fact that thinking of it thrills Dean.

He pulls back, fingers moving along the devil's trap. And then it hits him, and he's too stupid to stop himself before he says, "This'll be here longer than I will."

Sam freezes under him, his expression changing from turned on to angry. He pushes Dean off of him, rises to his feet, and slams the door to the car when he gets in. Dean lets him have some time to cool off—it was a shitty thing to say and Sam is right to be pissed—sips his beer and watches the grand finale in the sky.

When he finally gets back in the driver's seat, Sam has the Polaroids in his hands, and Dean can see tear tracks on his cheek.

"I'm sorry, Sam," he says. "It wasn't funny."

He tries to reach out, to brush his fingers on the back of Sam's neck to reassure him, but Sam pulls away. He drops the pictures onto his lap, wipes at his eyes, and turns to look out the window. "You keep doing shit so I'll remember you, Dean," he says. "You really think I'm gonna forget? I wish—I wish I could forget."

  


**NOW**  


The guy at the tattoo parlor gives Dean a long stare, his expression deeply critical. Probably trying to decide if Dean is too drunk or crazy to ink. Which is fair, Dean has a haphazard, bloody cotton patch over one eye and his right arm is still dripping blood.

Dean pushes the paper at him, repeating himself. "All you have to do is draw this on my wrist. A thousand bucks. I will pay in cash."

Finally, the man nods, leading Dean over to the chair. He works quietly and competently, careful to honor every swirl and line on the paper in front of him.

"Who's Sam?" the guy asks at some point, inclining his head down at Dean's wrist. "Don't get too many people walking in here with fresh cuts like that on their wrist."

Dean has an awkward time trying to see what the man is pointing to, has to turn his head at an angle so his right eye can catch sight of his other arm, the one not being worked on, and he sees fresh wounds, all variations on the same theme. He laughs to himself, shaking his head. "I have no idea."

The tattoo artist makes a noncommittal noise but keeps working and in another hour, Dean is paying and walking out, freshly marked. He gets into the car and drives until he reaches a long, empty stretch of road, and then he pulls the car over.

 _Who's Sam?_ he thinks, tracing the bumped scars on his forearm. _Who is Sam, why do I have to—?_

SAVE YOUR BROTHER another one says, and Dean focuses on it until his eye is swimming, until his head hurts and he has the almost amusing thought that he's going to burn that eye out too if he stares any harder. It feels like forever before he remembers a brother. He remembers having a brother.

His phone starts buzzing, an alarm that tells him to read something he will find in his shirt pocket, and then he remembers what he's doing, too. 

Dean opens the door, pulling himself out of the car before he does something he'll regret, like driving it straight into a tree. Over an hour that time. He forgot Sam altogether for over an hour. And it's only going to get worse.

He feels his stomach turning, like he's going to vomit, imagining the time getting longer, stretching on forever. No Sam. No memory of Sam. Oh, sure, he knew it was a part of this, but he still wasn't ready for the suffocating terror he would feel when someone asks _Who's Sam?_ and he can't find an answer.

He takes his pocket knife out and pulls his shirt up, burying the blade deep in his hip. Sam's name. Pulls it up to his other arm and carves Sam in there, too. His ribs, his thigh, he bleeds out into that field, every cut bringing him closer. Because if there comes a day when he can't remember his brother—really can't remember, not just an hour or two, but ever—well. He is going to know what he's missing. He is going to look in the mirror every day and see how much he had to throw away.

'SAVE SAMMY,' he cuts into his left calf, 'OR DIE.' It's advice he sincerely hopes he'll take, if it comes to that.

Then he puts his clothes back on, feels the tacky blood start to seep into the fabric. He doesn't have time to change or worry about closing up the wounds. He has to finish, and he has to finish soon.

  


It takes ten hours to break into Heaven. Ten hours of mixing herbs and saying words Dean doesn't know the meaning of and covering his bloody palms in bright grace that burns them even more than the cuts. Dean spends ten hours painting the grace onto the wall in the cold chamber, close enough to Sam's body to remember why he's doing this and ensure Sam will be the first thing he sees when he gets back, so he can remember where to put that soul if he manages to get that far.

It's cold and hot at the same time, the contrast between the freezing temperature in the room and the lava he's spreading against the wall unbearable. But on and on he goes, until Dean rubs the last of the grace into his skin and presses his palm to the wall, fervently whispering the words that should open the portal to Heaven.

Then he stands back, ready to see the result of his hard work. For a few seconds—the longest of Dean's life—nothing happens at all. Then the room starts to shake around him, though nothing falls or breaks except the wall in front of Dean, which begins to crumble until it opens up, a black hole like when they opened Lucifer's Cage sucking Dean in.

There's a heavy smell of something burning choking Dean, and he has just enough time to wonder why that is—isn't Hell where things burn?—before he's falling into light.

  


**March 17, 2013**  


Dean takes a deep breath, feeling it stretch his chest. He smiles lazily, enjoying the heavy burnt scent of pot and the way he feels weighed down into Sam. Sam's arm around his shoulder is warm and intimate and Dean fits comfortably between Sam's legs.

He feels good. Happy, even. Between hunting Dick Roman and Bobby dying and Sam having Lucifer in his head, he doesn't remember the last time he relaxed. But now? Now Dean would swear there isn't a thing in the world but his little brother's body heat and the weed in the air.

Dean's always been pretty good at forgetting things when it's easier than remembering.

Above him, he feels Sam exhale, and he watches with a laugh as two little Os float by him in smoke.

"Still remember how to do that, huh?" Dean asks, taking the blunt when Sam hands it off to him.

He can hear a smug smile in his brother's response. "Yeah. 'm better at it than you now, too."

"That so?" Dean asks. He watches the smoke curling out of the orange glow at the end of the joint and smiles. 

"Mmm hmm," Sam confirms.

Dean shakes his head, taking a puff and holding it, not letting anything escape as he says, "Watch and learn, Padawan."

Sam huffs a laugh. "And I'm the nerd."

Dean rounds his mouth, pushing out three perfect circles, right into Sam's face. Sam laughs and waves them away. "Got so many better things to do with your mouth than that."

"You're just jealous, little bro," Dean tells him, leaning in for a kiss.

Sam accepts it and grins when he pulls back. "I cannot believe we're smoking a dead guy's weed. In his living room. This is so wrong."

"Hey, we just ganked the ghost in his house and saved his vacationing wife and kid," Dean points out. "Not like he's gonna come back looking for it. Anyway, it was your idea."

"I was nearly killed by demented clowns last week," Sam says. "I deserve this."

"Damn right," Dean agrees. "Though I'm pretty sure you're going to have to stop using that excuse for everything at some point."

"Remember the first time we did this?" Sam asks, looking down at the joint. Dean isn't sure where the subject change came from, but right now he's not entirely sure where his feet end either. "God, I felt like such a badass."

Dean smiles to himself, thinking of Sam lying on his back, coughing for his first three drags until finally Dean's advice got across and Sam figured out how to hold it without choking himself.

He'd been so distracting, so infuriatingly hot as his shirt rode up on his stomach and he smiled wide, dimples to the sky for anyone to see. Dean's fingers had itched to touch, and usually he hated himself for it, but that day…with a thick cloud of smoke in his mind, he nearly went for it. And Sam, Sam had looked at him like a hero, had clung to his every word, like he'd been doing for months by then. Following Dean even more than usual, spending every moment he could at his side.

Dean had loved it, as much as he'd complained, but even then it made him a little uncomfortable. Sam had been acting like he was worried he was going to lose Dean. Of course, in retrospect, the thought of that still makes him bitter. The word Stanford had never left his brother's lips, not even when they were so high Dean could hardly stop his mouth from seeking out Sam's, but in a month, Sam was gone.

"Eighteen years old, couldn't stop giggling like a preteen girl at a One Direction concert. For shame."

"Did you just make a One Direction reference, Dean?" Sam snorts. "This must be some potent shit."

"Those little bastards are everywhere I look," Dean defends. "Besides. I'm under the influence. It doesn't count."

"Oh, it counts."

Dean shakes his head, taking the blunt from Sam. There's not an awful lot left in it, and Dean figures he can take the rest in one long pull, as long as he's willing to share.

He looks Sam in the eye and gives his brother a wicked grin. "That first time we smoked," Dean says. "I couldn't stop thinking of doing this. And now I'm allowed."

Once he's inhaled the last of the blunt and stomped it out on the coffee table Sam is leaning against, Dean straddles his brother, pressing in. Sam gets it, opens his mouth for Dean. They seal their lips together, Dean pushing and Sam sucking, accepting the smoke right out of Dean's lungs.

Then Dean pulls back and Sam makes four perfect smoke circles, cracking up once they're out. Dean watches the small cloud of air wafting by, a visible sign that they're both still breathing, still sharing the oxygen that's keeping them going. Maybe he's skewing toward the philosophical side of being stoned, but it makes him feel so damn easy he doesn't even care that Sam won.

  


**NOW**  


Heaven is on fire. That explains the smell, but opens up more questions than it puts to rest. Dean has to turn in a complete circle just to get a full picture, because apparently even in Heaven, he is down one eyeball. It would be nice if he could remember when that happened, but he shakes his head. It's not important.

Dean is in the street of a beautiful city, all the walls made of gold and glass, but everything burning. This is what happens, Dean supposes, when there's no one here to keep the place afloat.

He walks down a street—two lane asphalt, just like the last time, though he laughs at that thought, wondering how there could have been a last time. His car is not here with him, so he just keeps walking, hoping he'll find a door, hear someone crying for help, anything to tell him where to go.

All there is is chaos—a chaos made all the more uncanny by how quiet and still it is. Nothing moves but the flames reaching high up ahead of him. There's no wind, no cries for help. Of course, this is his Heaven, his and someone else's (who was it again?), and the only person who could cry for help here is locked up somewhere, hidden away.

Out of the corner of his eye, he turns and sees something bizarre. There's a field across the street, and it's burning, too. But there's a little boy standing in front of the flames, laughing like he's about to lose it.

"That firework hit the tree," the boy is yelling and pointing off in the distance, and he sounds scared, but he still can't stop laughing. "Dude, shut up and put it out! Or you get to tell Dad."

Dean shakes his head and looks away. Strange place for a child, this. Not his kid, though. Not his problem.

"Find Sam," Dean tells himself. That's all that matters.

It feels like hours or weeks or years before he passes a building that isn't about to be ashes. It stands out in a place like this, where everything's in ruins. There's gotta be something protected inside, Dean figures, if someone went to the trouble of saving it from the otherwise unchecked spread of destruction.

He's searching for something important. He doesn't know what, but it seems a safe enough bet he'll find it here.

He opens the door and steps in, and there's a field inside, too, even though he is standing in a building with walls and doors and windows that display the burning world outside. He sees a long line of people dressed up in white and red costumes, wielding cardboard swords like they're about to go to a very low stakes war or they just got back from one.

"I'm glad we stayed for that," a guy says, and Dean turns his head so he can fix his right eye on the speaker. The man is tall, taller than Dean, his brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and his face squared off in red and white paint. "It was fun."

For some reason, those simple words fill Dean with a sense of relief and awe and he thinks _you chose me, I can't believe you chose me_. But it doesn't make any sense, Dean doesn't even get what he's thinking.

"I don't have time to talk to you," Dean tells the guy. "I'm looking for something. Sorry."

"Yeah," the guy says, like he agrees with Dean, but then he goes on like he's continuing a completely different conversation. "I guess we can come back next year. Can't abandon Moondor now that we're in the Queens Guard, right?"

Good smile under all that stupid face paint. If Dean weren't so busy, he'd smudge the paint with kisses, but he's kind of in the middle of something.

Something. Not sure what, but something.

His phone buzzes. It's a message to read some words off a page, and Dean considers ignoring that, too, but he decides to play it safe. "I've got to take this," he lies, just so he has an excuse to step away from the man.

The big guy just goes on smiling and talking to the empty space where Dean was, and Dean gets the weirdest feeling of déjà-vu. He ignores that like he's ignored everything else, reading off the slip of paper in his pocket and stepping through the nearest door, hoping to find some privacy there.

What he finds instead is a nightmare. There's a man strapped into a chair, blood dripping from his forehead, his arms cut in half and his chest wide open, his still-pumping heart spitting blood out into the guy's lap.

He looks familiar, and after a few seconds, Dean recognizes him as the same tall man who had been so happy in the last room. This version of him is the opposite, tears the only thing streaking through the blood on his cheeks, a gory mockery of the playful war paint Dean had seen him wearing only a minute ago.

Nothing makes Dean feel squeamish, but the realization that this isn't just some guy, this is someone's _soul_ nearly sends him howling to the mad house.

"How'd you get here?" he asks, taking a few hurried steps to the chair. He reaches up, about to touch the guy's face to reassure him, but the soul pulls away quickly, like a dog that thinks Dean is going to strike.

"No, please," he says. "Please don't touch me. You don't understand how it hurts to be touched. The needles, the knife, anything, just don't put your hands on me."

"I'm not going to hurt you," Dean promises. "But I can't get you out of here unless I take off these straps."

The man swallows, and he stays still this time when Dean touches him.

As soon as they make contact, Dean feels flush with an almost too good sense of rightness. The guy's eyes open wide with shock, and then he licks his lips. He lets out a long breath, leans into Dean's fingers, and there's a look on his face of intense pleasure and relief. "Dean? Is it you?"

"Do I know you?" Dean asks.

He would swear the guy looks hurt. "You don't know who I am?"

Dean shakes his head. "It's okay, though. I'm going to get you out."

"I'm your brother," the soul says. "I'm Sam."

Dean doesn't have a brother, never did. For some reason, the very suggestion infuriates him. He wishes for one with a violent kind of desperation, wonders if his life has always been as empty as he now feels it is.

He thinks the guy is making fun of him, and he kind of wants to punch the stranger for rubbing it in. But this is a victim, this is a soul in terrible pain, and Dean can't just leave him here. His Dad taught him better than that.

"It's okay," Dean promises the man. Sam, apparently. "Sam, can you hear me? I'm going to get you out of here."

  


**August 13, 2000**  


This is not Dean Winchester's finest hour. Come to think of it, it's not John Winchester's finest hour, either. They're hunting a possessed baobab and they rushed in with axes and machetes, thinking they could cut the thing to death, or at least reduce it to being harmless.

So now they're trapped under snake-like tree limbs, and the vines are growing fast around Dean's middle, squeezing his lungs, constricting until he starts worrying he'll pass out and die over something this stupid.

Sam, on the other hand, well. Dean will grudgingly admit this might be Sam Winchester's finest hour. Just this one time, obsessive research was apparently the right idea, and as soon as Sam saw Dean and John go under, he rushes the family he was protecting inside the house out onto the sidewalk and ran to the trunk, carving in some symbols that look like hieroglyphics as far as Dean is concerned.

It works, though. Just in time, the tree doesn't quite wither up like Dean is hoping, but it begins to loosen its hold, weakening, slowly retreating onto itself.

"Help!" one of the girls on the sidewalk screams, and Sam turns his head immediately. "I think my sister stayed inside to save the hamster. We thought she was following, please save her."

Sam does exactly what he should do, kicks the machete the tree had knocked out of his hands toward Dean so it's close enough for him to reach. Dean begins to cut himself loose, then Dad, as Sam runs for the house, not hesitating despite the fact that it's clearly about to collapse on itself thanks to the branches that had, until seconds ago, been threatening to squeeze the house into matchwood.

By the time Dean has Dad free and is pulling him to his feet, Sam is carrying the little girl out to her mom. The woman is crying, the sister thanking Sam profusely, the dad staring at his house in perplexed horror. Sam smiles reassuringly and pats the mother on the shoulder as he hands her baby girl over, and the girl grins like it's all a game, holds up her hamster and cheerfully announces that it's okay, too.

John stands at Dean's right, watching the whole thing with much more aloofness than Dean can muster up right now.

"Your brother is a real pain in the ass," John says. He turns to give Dean a private smile, and Dean just wishes he would ever let Sam see that pride. Maybe then they could stop fighting. Maybe then Dean could stop worrying they were going to push Sam away. "But he's a Winchester through and through."

"Yeah," Dean agrees, turning his attention back to Sam. Sam is looking at him and when he notices Dean's eyes on him, he smiles just for Dean. Dean feels a low, dirty pull in his belly, a sudden uncontrollable want.

His brother. His own geeky little Sammy, and Dean is standing here, next to their father, unable to stem the flood of filth in his mind. He pushes it aside when Sam rejoins them, putting an arm around his brother's shoulders and teasing him as he ruffles Sam's hair, and he hopes that maybe he can kill every bad idea he just had and never look at his brother like that again.

But deep down, in the part of Dean he won't acknowledge, he knows better than to believe he'll ever think of Sam and be clean again.

  


**NOW**  


"I need you to come with me," Dean explains once he has Sam free of the straps that had been holding him down. "Do you understand me?"

The soul shakes its head. "I can't walk," he says, pointing down at his stringed guts and, okay. Maybe that's a fair point.

Dean grins, though. He's lucky this is happening now, now when he's been through so much (but why do his memories of it all feel so vacant?) and learned how to deal with things he couldn't have imagined ten years ago. Benny taught him how to carry a soul across the borders of dimensions. Dean can do that much for this Sam guy.

"That's okay," Dean tells him, picking up one of the knives on the table by Sam's chair. "I've got an idea."

Sam makes a terrified sound and tries to pull back farther into his seat. "Please, no. Please no more. God, I can't stand it. I can't, please—"

"Shhh," Dean says soothingly, and to his surprise, the soul trusts him enough to relax a little. "It's not gonna hurt much," Dean promises, lifting his own forearm, "Look, I'll go first."

He cuts a nick right through the wrist, confused when he sees there are cuts there already, and they spell out Sam's name. Maybe he came here specifically to do this, sent by some desperate relatives or something. He's fuzzy on the details, but it seems as good an explanation as any.

"See?" he says, holding the knife out to Sam. "You can do your own. This is all I need, just a little cut like this."

Sam looks hesitant, but he takes the knife when Dean hands it to him, then places the blade against his skin, looking up at Dean as if for approval.

"Yeah, that's real good," he encourages. "Go on, you trust me, don't you?"

"Of course," Sam says, licking his lips. "Of course I trust you, Dean."

When Sam's done, Dean grabs his wrist and says the spell Benny taught him. He's ready for the red light to spill out as Sam pours into him, and he's expecting the same searing pain that he had felt every second Benny's soul was inside of him.

But what he feels is a near-orgasmic shot of bliss, a feeling of completion as if this soul was always supposed to be here and Dean didn't even know how wrong he was without it until he'd gotten it back.

"Bravo, bravo," says a voice behind him.

He turns and there's a man standing there, middle-aged and insignificant looking. He's clapping his hands sarcastically, and Dean realizes this was a trap.

"Did you really think I was just going to let you walk out of Heaven, though?"

"I was planning to take the train, actually," Dean says.

The man—no, angel—steps forward. Metatron, Dean recognizes him now. "You got farther than I thought you would, I'll give you that. Of course, you've also blown twenty of your hours on this trip through Heaven."

Dean eyebrows draw together in confusion. It's only been one hour, maybe one and a half.

Metatron tries to make a sympathetic face, but he can't conceal the gleeful twinkle in his eyes. "Oh, I know. Inter-dimensional travel times are so hard to adjust for. I guess I should have mentioned that before you started the ritual, but it slipped my mind. You know all about being forgetful, right Dean?"

Dean is so confused for a second. He doesn't know what Metatron is talking about or how he got here or why is arm is tingling so much. "Please, just let me go back to Earth. I've got no interest in Heaven. I won't bother you again."

Metatron smiles. "Sure! Just hand over that soul."

"Soul?" Dean asks, looking down at the glow in his arm. Oh, that might explain it, but where did it come from. Is it not his? "Why is there a soul in me?"

"Beats me why you're trying to steal souls from Heaven," Metatron says, but Dean doesn't like the sly expression on his face. "That one is mine and I'd like it back. Then you can go."

Dean knows just enough about this angel to be pretty sure he has no interest in giving him what he wants. "You know, on second thought? I think I'll take it with me."

"Is that right?" Metatron says, and now he's actually laughing. "You're going to do that how? I'm an angel, boy. You can't fight me."

"No," Dean agrees. "I can't. You're way too powerful."

"Great." Metatron holds out his hand and makes a 'pony up' gesture. "So why don't you give me that soul and we can do this the peaceful way."

"Thing is," Dean says with a grin, glancing down with his one good eye at the black mark on his hand. "Thing is, you can't fight me, either."

Metatron follows Dean's line of sight and makes a constipated face as soon as he sees the sigil.

"Very powerful angel warding," Dean says, holding up his hand and feeling exceedingly smug. "Doesn't cover much physical space, but it'll more than do to keep a human warded from angels, right?"

"You little ape," Metatron says, stepping forward like he wants to attack Dean, but he hits an invisible wall once he gets too close, like a demon stuck in a trap. "I taught you that!"

"And I thank you for it," Dean says. "I'm sure you'll think of some way to get to me if I hang around here too long, so I'll be peacing out now."

"I'll kill you," Metatron says. "And if I can't kill you, I've got a better plan. I'll just kill Sam again when you get him back. Watch your pathetic ass drag around without him and I won’t do you the kindness of offering you a way to forget this time. I'll make you suffer in ways…"

Dean rolls his eyes, not understanding half of Metatron's threats and not particularly caring about the rest of them.

"That's all really nice," Dean says. He reaches into his shirt pocket for the worn slip of paper he's been reading from and says the words one last time.

A big portal made of silver light opens up, and Dean jumps through.

  


**November 1, 2011**  


"So souls," says Dean, sending one uncomfortable glance to his brother's tied up body. "What's the big deal?"

"The big deal," Castiel repeats like Dean just asked the stupidest question imaginable. "They are only the most powerful entities in all of creation. No big deal."

Dean laughs, kind of amused that Cas is so pissy nowadays. He's a little like Sam used to be as a teenager, and it makes Dean feel fond and angry at the same time. He wants his brother back so much it's maddening, especially considering that what should be the bulk of Sam is sitting right there, listening to their conversation with a hateful look on his face.

"Alright, alright," Dean says. "I get it. But what makes them so powerful?"

Castiel raises an eyebrow. "I can only answer that question through the application of advanced string theory, non-linear algebra, and with the aide of a thirty-seven foot model of a soul's physical make-up constructed from toothpicks and Styrofoam balls."

Dean sighs. "The abridged version."

"Souls are God's finest work. According to God, of course. Many angels disagree with this assessment, most notably Lucifer, who argued that an angel's grace, although less complicated, was more valuable because of its greater kinetic ability to—"

"Angels," Dean mutters.

Cas gives him a half smile, the only sign he'd intentionally been messing with Dean. "To put it simply, souls are what make you, well, _you_."

"Yeah," Dean agrees. "I got that from riding around with soulless over there."

"So do you think it's easy to just make a creature as base as a human capable of reaching true sentience? A lot of work goes into raising your species above the beasts of this world."

"And the soul does that work?"

"Yes," says Cas. "The soul is entirely responsible for your human curiosity, your ability to dream and imagine, your art and poetry and science. For your capacity to love."

"So Sam doesn't…?" Dean breaks off and passes a hand over his face, laughing lightly. "Of course he doesn't. I knew that."

"Your brother's soul still loves you very much," Castiel tells him.

"Right, great. Fat lot of good that does me while it's stuck in Hell."

"Well," Castiel says, drawing the word out. "It is not technically stuck, but it is nearly impossible to save something that refuses to be saved."

"You think Sam's soul wants to be in Hell?" Dean asks, giving Cas a sharp look.

Cas turns his face away quickly, almost guiltily. "Souls are finicky things, Dean. They are very…intimate parts of you."

"Okay," Dean replies. "I guess that makes sense."

"They don't follow just anyone. When human souls are touched by someone else, it is a terrible violation. Even if someone could get into the cage to free your brother, he would not go with them. It would take a creature of far greater power—God or Death—to get your brother out of the cage." Cas gives Dean a long, assessing look, then adds, "Maybe you."

"Me?" Dean asks with a laugh. "I'm flattered."

"Don't be. You are not nearly powerful enough to get there and out. The thought is, frankly, ludicrous."

"Thanks, Cas," says Dean. "Glad to know it's so amusing to you."

"But because of your bond with your brother, you are probably the only human soul he would follow out. Even…" Cas licks his lips and stares at his hands, and again, Dean can't help thinking his facial expression is a little off. "Even an angel could not convince your brother's soul to escape that cage."

"So you're saying me and Sam are—"

"You knew already. Didn't you? After Heaven?"

Dean thinks it over for a few seconds, then finally nods. Soulmates. The reminder just makes him angry.

"So everything I like about Sam is still suffering," Dean says. "And all I get is that empty shell over there?"

"You know I can hear you, right?" Sam asks from across the room. "Are you planning to untie me?"

Dean and Castiel both ignore him.

"I'm sorry," Cas says, and Dean doesn't think he's ever heard so much emotion in the angel's voice. Cas lifts his eyes up to meet Dean's, and Dean thinks he sees regret there, but he's not sure what for. "Dean, I am so, so sorry."

  


**NOW**  


He lands in a frozen room, not really sure how he got there. It felt a little like a meteorite—falling, falling too fast, burning up, and suddenly the sharp stop, and he's coming to in what looks like a giant meat locker. He doesn't realize he's home until he sees the Men of Letters' logo painted on the door to the room. Those old stiffs sure liked branding things. Why they had a giant freezer or how Dean ended up in it are still mysteries to be solved.

His feet move him across the room, and he's walking blind—or half-blind, as it were—not sure where he's going but feeling compelled. Being led by a pull in his gut and a bright orange light glowing under the sliced skin on his forearm, like a homing beacon.

There's something tucked into the corner that Dean feels drawn to, a table on wheels, something big sitting on it. Dean can't see what it is because it's covered with a tarp. The feeling that led him here only gets stronger then, telling him this is what he came for. Like a giftwrapped present and Dean can't wait to find out what it's trying to show him.

He cradles his arm around his body, a little cool, but with a warmth swimming under his skin that almost keeps him from feeling the air around him. Still, Dean is underdressed for the freezing temperature, his thin Henley not nearly enough to fight the frost, and he doesn't want to stand in it too long. So he wheels the table out into the main hall and braces himself for what he might find lumped under the sheet.

What he finds is not really a surprise. There's a body there, male, exactly what Dean would have expected to find tucked away in his freezer if he'd had time to guess. It still opens up a host of questions: who or what is it? How did it get here? How long has it been there? Since the Men of Letters last lived here, or was this something Dean brought in and forgot about?

He circles around inspecting it, and something flares up in his chest. It doesn't give him many answers, but it rules out one thing. Dean didn't bring this corpse in. Dean wouldn't have forgotten something this spellbinding. As soon as he looks at the body in front of him, Dean never wants to look away.

It's not that the man's hot, though he is, no doubt about it. Dean would have been happy to fuck this guy if he'd stumbled in on him alive, but that's not it, either. It's that he's beautiful on some deeper level. Not radiant with grace like an angel or dripping with a dark, seductive allure like so many of the demons Dean's met. There's nothing he can point to that will pin down whatever makes the boy so beautiful it's breaking Dean's heart just looking at him. Not because he's dead, he would be just as devastating if he were alive.

Dean wants to chain himself to this body, wants to cut his pumping heart out and put it into this boy's chest, bring him to life for the purely selfish pleasure of knowing some part of him could contribute to someone like this.

He presses his hand to the dead face and wishes there was a flush of warmth under the skin, but there isn't—he's frozen over. Dean has to do something, needs to save him somehow. It's too late. He's dead already. 

For some reason, Dean can't stop touching the face, even as the chilled flesh is making his fingers numb. He strokes the stubbled cheeks obsessively, trying to warm or wake him up, or maybe just wanting to get his hands on whatever the corpse still has to offer him.

"Who are you?" he asks the body, as if the boy will wake up just to answer his question.

Boy, Dean keeps coming back to that. This isn't a boy he's cradling between his palms. It's a grown ass man; taller than Dean, probably, if he were standing, or if Dean were lying next to him. Which is a tempting thought. Still, it's boy in his mind, it's someone that needs Dean to protect him, and Dean feels a fierce, tender desperation to guard him.

To guard him from what? The guy is already dead. Dean already failed him.

No. He can't be dead. Dean won't accept it, his mind refusing to settle on the very obvious fact. It's stupid, he knows, the boy was dead before Dean even met him. Dead is all he's ever been. There was never a chance and he's—

He's wasting time. He was doing something important, wasn't he?

Dean pulls back from the body, realizing this might be a trap. The body was put here to distract him, and dammit, it's working. He's wasting precious time he doesn't have, staring at a stranger's corpse, and now he can't even remember what he was in the middle of.

His eyes catch on the carcass again, and he can't stop himself from taking another step in. He leans over, looks closely at the face under him. What could be more important that this? 

"Who are you?" he asks again, beating his hand against his head as if he can just knock all the answers back into place. "What am I supposed to be doing? I'm running out of time, I…"

Unsurprisingly, the corpse doesn't really have anything to add to the conversation. Dean feels something surge through his blood, and he stumbles forward, almost convinced he felt a physical tug toward the body. He looks down at his arms where he thinks he can still feel something gripping him, and he sees orange light beneath his flesh. A thousand slices in his skin that all say the same thing:

Sam. Sammy. Save Sam. Who the fuck is Sam and why should Dean save him? Why can't Dean just stay here, stay with his beautiful corpse, die and rot curled on the floor just so he can do it next to something this perfect?

He feels the pull again, yanking him to the boy's side until he's either going to stop or topple them both over. And instead of pausing to think about which one it's gonna be, Dean lets himself fall, tangles his fingers in the long brown hair on the back of the boy's head, wet and chilly, but Dean ignores the cold. He presses his mouth against the dead lips and imagines a warmth exploding through them, the skin coming to life as he licks in and kisses and wonders why what he's doing doesn't disgust him.

Very suddenly, it turns into a nightmare. Dean tries to pull back, but the dead boy's arms have come up to surround him, are pulling him in and keeping Dean's mouth sealed to his own. Dean feels something precious being sucked right out of him, some part of him Dean didn't know he had. Something so damn beloved he doesn't really believe it was ever a part of him to begin with, but he doesn't want to let it go. He can feel himself crying, and if the corpse would just give him his mouth back, he wouldn't be too proud to beg so that he could keep it.

That doesn't happen. Dean feels the last slivers of whatever he'd had inside of him slip right past his lips before finally the dead boy eases up and Dean pulls back immediately, terrified by what he's done, what he'll see when he looks at the body again. He doesn't want it to be a monster. Dean doesn't care if he dies now, not after what it just took from him, but he can't bear the thought that his last act will be ruining that gorgeous corpse. Better it stay dead than wake up just to be pumped full of Dean's poison.

He braces himself for something: life-ending pain or a burning light, but everything is quiet until he feels cold fingers brushing gently along his cheek. Dean opens his eyes, half wanting to shy away from the touch, half wanting to burrow closer, and nearly lets out a sob when he sees—the boy is there, his eyebrows drawn together as he looks at Dean, and he's even better like this. Somehow, he's even better.

"Dean," the corpse says, though it's not a corpse anymore. He says Dean's name sternly, worried, pissed, it doesn't matter. Dean can't believe someone like this knows his name. Then he brushes his thumb lightly over the patch on Dean's eye and his expression goes stormy, his voice threatening. "What did you do?"

That's a good question, Dean wishes he could remember. But for now, there are more important things to ask about. "Who are you?"

The man looks so hurt for a moment. Dean wishes that he'd killed Dean instead of looking at him like that. "You still don't know me?"

He—no. Sam. _This_ is Sam. He'd know Sam anywhere.

"What do you mean?" Dean asks, and then Sam looks down and Dean hears his brother suck in air. Yes, brother. Didn't he have a brother? And wasn't that brother named Sam?

He seizes Dean's forearms, holds them up, inspects the damage on both sides, and puts his hands on Dean's shoulders, shaking him. "Dean, what did you do?"

"What I had to," he says, looking at the clean cuts up and down his wrists, and it all hits him in a rush. He remembers the fear and desperation he'd felt when he'd carved those words. It makes him laugh.

Because he was worried about failing for nothing. He did it. He really did it.

"Sammy," he says, looking up into his brother's still horrified face. "I did what I had to do to save you."

Punch. Dean thinks it's Sam at first, and, okay, fair enough. Dean did promise not to bring him back, but he wishes Sam would rest a bit, get healthy before beating the crap out of him. Then he realizes it's not Sam at all.

He lurches forward, feeling his body convulse as a million powerful memories rush in on him at once. If it weren't for Sam's arm catching him, he would have fallen right onto his brother. Sam was dead half a minute ago, Dean shouldn't be depending on him to stay vertical.

He tries to let go, staggers back, and Sam doesn't relax like he's supposed to. He only sits up more, supportinging Dean's weight.

Sam isn't the only thing he's starting to remember, and Metatron's little spell is weighing down on him. He hasn't slept in three days. Hasn't eaten—unless whiskey counts. He's lost a lot of blood. He was running on fumes and the burst of power he got from the soul he just poured into Sam.

"Dean, please," Sam begs. "Tell me what you did."

Dean shakes his head, pushing Sam away and collapsing, his own legs too weak to hold him.

He's going to die, he thinks. He's going to die to the sound of his brother saying his name, Sam's worried hands grasping him as he follows Dean to the floor. He's going to die, and Sam is going to live, a perfect balance in the universe as far as Dean is concerned.

The expression on Sam's face isn't just worried. It's the kind of horrified panic you can only feel for someone you truly love. Good last thing to see, Dean just wishes he had two eyes to see it with.

"You son of a bitch," Sam says. "You son of a bitch, I swear to god, if you leave me here—"

Dean laughs as blood starts dripping from his lips, and he can't stop smiling. "I did it," he says through the pain, his own laughter, his brother's curses. "I remember you."

The room starts swimming in his view, and Dean closes his one working eye, trying to calm how his stomach is beginning to turn.

Dying. Yeah, definitely. But it doesn't bother Dean. It's more than fair, as long as he dies remembering that he's got a little brother with stupid hair and shitty taste in music and the prettiest damn mouth Dean's ever kissed. He feels himself grinning even as the pain shoots through him and takes one big hand in his own, squeezing Sam's wrist. It won't be long now, so he chooses his last word carefully.

"Sammy."

  


**May 12, 2010**  


Tomorrow, the world ends. This isn't the first time, exactly. It felt like the world was going to end when Sam died in Cold Oak, when Dean had 24 hours before his deal was due, when Sam busted out of the panic room and Lilith broke the last seal. But this one could really be it. The actual, literal end of the world.

Strangely enough, Dean feels a sense of peace and contentment. If the Apocalypse has to happen, this is exactly how he would have chosen to spend his last night on Earth. Sam's arm is draped around him, his thumb playing idly with the top of Dean's shoulder. Dean's head is pressed to Sam's chest, and he smells Sam everywhere, feels Sam's come in his ass, can taste salty sweat from every kiss he presses to Sam's body.

The problem isn't that the world might end. It's that no matter what happens, whether they win or lose tomorrow, Dean is never going to have his brother here with him again.

"What’s it like?" Sam asks out of nowhere.

Dean understands the question, even if they haven't mentioned where Sam might be at this time tomorrow, and he figures he owes it to Sam right now not to try and dodge the subject. "It's terrible, Sam. It's…too terrible to put words to. And if I had them, I wouldn't say them."

"I'm scared," Sam admits, just like that, like it doesn't embarrass him or make him feel weaker. That's something Sam's always been able to do, admit when he's scared, and Dean admires him for it.

"I'll get you out," Dean promises.

"No," Sam replies. "You won't. I don't want you telling me you will."

"You said it all the time when I was—"

"Yeah, and look what I turned into when I couldn’t." Sam tightens his grip on Dean's shoulder. "I don't want you to feel like you failed me. If I actually pull this off tomorrow, it's because you never once failed me. I don't expect you to get me out. I don't want you to try. Trust me, Dean. You go crazy wandering down that road."

Dean remembers all too well, but he understands better now. Sam alone and desperate, no easy crossroad fix, no escape except with his mouth on Ruby's pulse. He thinks of how ashamed Sam was on his first night back on Earth, which they spent just like this, only it was Sam's face pressed to Dean's chest then. Sam had apologized so many times that night, and Dean had been so ignorant of just how much he'd broken his brother with that deal, had assumed Sam was apologizing for not getting him out, which Dean never blamed him for, not for what happened after.

Sam had waited an hour after they'd fucked, until he thought Dean was asleep, and then he'd cried against Dean, deep wracking sounds that reminded Dean of the cries of tortured souls in Hell.

"You know I forgive you for everything, right?"

Sam laughs. "I know. Just wish I could forgive myself."

"If we win tomorrow," Dean says, and he feels Sam nodding above him.

"If we win tomorrow. At least I'll know I fixed my mess."

No one talks about what will happen if they don't win. This is already depressing enough.

"Dean, I'm serious," Sam says after a while. "Don't try to save me."

He doesn't start a fight by insisting he's going to, but he doesn't kid himself for a moment that he's going to respect Sam's wishes, either. He will always bring Sam back.

  


**NOW**  


Dean's first thought when he comes to and tries to open his eyes is that one of them is missing. Not a particularly deep observation, but it's good to start with the basics.

"I'm not down any limbs, 'm I?" Dean asks.

He hears something clatter as it's dropped to the desk and in seconds, Sam is at his side, big hands on his face. "You're awake," he says. "Good. Now I can kill you."

Dean laughs. "I don't recommend it. Bringing me back would be a huge pain in the ass for you. Take it from me."

Sam is not in a joking mood, apparently. "Dammit, Dean. I told you not to."

"Dammit, Sam. I didn't listen."

He turns his head so he can see Sam and smiles at the mix of worry and relief, the dark circles under Sam's eyes. He looks like shit, but he looks exactly the way he did the last time Dean saw him alive.

Dean can't help it if he's smiling. "We gotta stop meeting like this, Sammy."

"I was dead," Sam says in a muted voice.

"Except your hair and your nails," Dean replies, shaking his head in mock dismay. "Of course your stubborn hair would be the thing to—"

"Just tell me how," Sam interrupts, not even remotely amused. "What's the price tag this time?"

Dean lets his head droop, points up at the hole where his left eye used to be. "This, I guess."

Sam grabs his arm and shows Dean the mutilations all over his wrists, and Dean remembers scratching Sam's name all over his body. He doesn't mind the scars, doesn't mind if people can see who he belongs to. Wasn't ever much good at hiding it anyway, was he?

"Dig the new look?" Dean jokes. "I think it's an improvement."

"Dean, I swear to god—"

"I made a bet," Dean says. "If I could get you out of Heaven without forgetting you, you live. If not, I forget you completely. It was a rigged game, but I won. You can't really be mad. You're alive and all it cost was an eyeball, this is getting off easy for us."

"You didn't know me." Sam's eyes get all wet, and Dean wants to call him a baby just because he can't stand knowing he's responsible for the tears. "Dean, I can't believe you took that risk. Do you know how horrible—? I can't imagine anything worse than if you'd fucked this up. You _didn't know me_."

"You were being tortured," says Dean, and Sam flinches at the reminder. "What was I supposed to do, Sam? You were being tortured."

"Nothing he did to me was worse than if I'd died and you didn't remember me."

"I know," Dean says softly, no point in lying about it now. "I know because I did forget you. I remember what it felt like not to have a brother. I think for a few minutes there I understood what it was like for you, not having a soul. I remember not remembering you, and it's never going to stop haunting me, but you were dead and I had a chance to fix that. You would have done it, too."

Sam shakes his head, purses his lips, but maybe he finally knows Dean well enough to just accept that this will always be his response, because he doesn't say anything contrary.

"Easiest fix to this is if you stop dying," Dean points out. "Then I can stop doing stupid things to bring you back."

Sam lets out a mix of a sigh and an amused huff, finally says, "Cas is on his way."

"Cas is alive?" Dean asks. "How do you know?"

"He called a few hours ago."

"Son of a bitch couldn't manage to pick up the phone any sooner? I've been going crazy looking for him."

"Actually he couldn't," Sam says with a slightly amused lilt in his voice. "He was in a coma until, from what I can tell, right about the time you broke out of Heaven."

"Jesus," Dean mutters. "Angel comas."

"No, actually," Sam replies. "He's human again."

"Ah," Dean says, slightly disappointed. He'd kind of been hoping Cas would heal him, but oh well. Still a small price to pay.

Apparently Sam was thinking the same thing. "I know, Dean. Your eye. But he could still get his grace back some day. Stranger things have happened."

"You're here, aren't you?" Dean points out.

Sam laughs. "For example that."

"I'll have to burn off the new tat if Cas is gonna heal me. Which is too bad, 'cause it sure could come in handy."

"What happened to your eye?" Sam interrupts, reaching out to adjust bandages, and Dean only then realizes that all his wounds are dressed up and carefully tended to.

"We'll talk about it another time," Dean says. "I'm pretty beat, Sammy."

"Yeah, I bet," Sam replies. "Look, I'll get you something to eat and you sleep a little more, and we can talk about it then."

"You're not mad at me?"

Sam bites his bottom lip, a concentrated look on his face, until finally he seems to come to a decision. "I don’t know. What do you want me to say? That I'm thrilled about what you did? That I'm not going to forgive you? Neither of those things are true."

"Fair enough." Dean looks down at his hands. "Metatron gave me the way out."

Sam's lips tighten when he hears the angel's name. "Dean, the things he—"

"No, I know he's not the good guy. Hell, hunting his ass down is number one on my to-do list. But it was kind of funny. Thought you should know."

Sam adjusts Dean's pillow and strokes Dean's face carefully. "I want to kill him, too. But let's make number one on your to-do list getting healthy again, yeah?"

"Yeah, fine," Dean says, putting on a grudging tone. "But don't think I'm gonna forget."

"I wouldn't," Sam replies. "Though you got pretty close."

Dean reaches out and takes his brother's hand, shaking his head. That's not what he meant, not really, and he needs Sam to understand. "Sam, listen to me. I was never really going to forget. I beat the house, and I'm gonna beat it every time. No one is ever going to take you from me."

Sam must feel the weight behind Dean's words, but he doesn't acknowledge them with anything more than a kiss, a big hand through Dean's hair, and a promise of warm chicken soup.


End file.
